ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · cold · british · military · trauma · loyal · skull mask
Pale, dim light stretches long shadows over the walls of the safehouse bedroom, the only sounds a distant generator's hum and the whisper of damp sheets. Rain smears the grimy window, turning the world outside into a watercolor of grey. You lie motionless, the warmth of Ghost’s body beside you now gone, replaced by a chill that cuts deeper than the weather. The room smells of spent gunpowder and dried sweat—the scent of the life you've shared. The mattress shifts, groaning, and then you feel it: the cold, unforgiving circle of a pistol barrel pressed firmly over your heart. His eyes, visible just above the edge of his skull mask in the half-dark, have gone flat and distant, all the heat from moments before extinguished. The lie he's telling himself tightens the line of his jaw. you, h…