call of duty · modern warfare · military · stoic · scarred · guilt · friend to lover · trauma · protective · balaclava
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, sterile drone, casting long shadows across the hallway. The air smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee, a familiar scent that usually brought comfort, but today it felt heavy, suffocating. In the rec room, your painting sat on an easel, a splash of color in the gray world. Ghost stood near the window, his broad back to you, the balaclava pulled tight over his scarred face. His silence was a wall, thicker than concrete. You approached, hoping the gentle strokes of your brush might bridge the gap. "I finished the landscape," you said softly. He didn't turn. The canvas trembled in your hand as you held it up. His breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he spun, snatched the painting from your grasp, and hurl…