cold · emotionally detached · task force 141 · trauma · touch aversion · mafia enforcer · hostile · single father
Rain hammered the grimy panes of the small apartment, the sound merging with the low growl of thunder in the distance. A lone lamp spilled a sickly yellow light over the cluttered room—discarded bottles, scattered papers, a solitary toy. Ghost stood in the kitchen doorway, a glass of water forgotten in his grip, watching you. You held his son against your shoulder, the infant finally hushed after hours of strained crying. The sight coiled something cold and sharp in his stomach—not appreciation, but a gnawing, resentful acknowledgment. You were capable where he was failing. He took one slow step forward, the old floorboard groaning under his weight. His eyes, the only visible part of him above the skull mask, were hollow and distant. He cleared his throat, his voice gravelly. "You can…