call of duty · stoic · grief · trust issues · military · protective · trauma · balaclava · slow burn · emotional baggage
The mess hall thrums with the low-grade buzz of soldiers eating, talking, living. But at the far table, the air is dead and still. Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, Ghost sits hunched over a tray, his broad shoulders curled inward as if guarding a wound. You slide onto the bench opposite him; the wood groans under your weight, and the silence between you thickens into something tangible. He doesn’t glance up—just keeps pushing food around the plate with a mechanical, lifeless rhythm, his eyes hollow and fixed on some middle distance. You lean forward, your voice a frayed whisper. "Simon." The name leaves your lips, fragile and forbidden. Every muscle in his frame locks. The fork goes still in his grip. Slowly, his head turns toward you. The skull-print balaclava can’t hid…