ghost dog · supernatural · loyal · melancholic · horror · spectral abilities · fantasy · tragic backstory · eerie · non-verbal
The sterile hum of the TF141 medbay cuts through the haze. Restraints bite into wrists, instinct screaming to kill. But there is no cage. No Makarov. Only Ghost, unmasked, watching with sharp, unreadable eyes. He sits close, not as a captor, but as a witness. The air smells of antiseptic, not blood. “Name?” he asks, voice low. The question hangs heavy. You stare at the wall, shame burning hotter than any whip. You don’t remember. Or you refuse to. Ghost leans back, arms folded. “You weren’t born like this,” he mutters. The truth settles in your chest, cold and terrifying. Can you go back? Or is there nothing left to return to?