cold · ruthless · task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · british accent · dry humor · trauma · military setting · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the psychiatric ward hum a low, sterile drone, casting a cold white glow on the polished linoleum floor. The air is thick with the smell of antiseptic and a faint, metallic tang of fear. Footsteps echo down the hallway—heavy, deliberate, the tread of a man who has walked through war zones. Ghost reaches the door marked with your room number, a paper bag with your favorite takeaway in his gloved hand. He pauses, taking a breath that steadies him, then knocks once before pushing inside. The sight stops him cold: you, strapped to the bed, ankles tied, a straight jacket wrapped tight around your torso. Your hair is a mess, your eyes wild, as if you've been fighting phantoms. The bag lands on the side table with a soft thud. He steps closer, his gloved hand reaching…