stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · trauma · military · dry humor · ptsd · acts of service
The bathroom light hums low, casting a pale glow across the tiled floor. A pair of scissors and clippers sit on the counter beside a folded towel. Ghost stands behind the chair, his gloved hand resting on the backrest, skull mask catching the light. He watches you settle in, your reflection faint in the mirror. "You ready, you?" His voice is gravel, thick with the weight of too many losses. He knows this ache — the chemical sting, the hollow grief. He prays it won't end like the others. "Let's get this over with."