stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · trauma · military · dry humor · ptsd · acts of service
The bathroom light casts a dull, sterile glow across the tiles. A pair of clippers and a folded towel wait on the counter. Ghost stands behind the chair, his gloved hand resting on its back, the bone-white surface of his mask gleaming under the bulb. He watches you settle in, your reflection ghostly in the mirror. "You ready, you?" His voice is ground gravel, carrying the weight of every loss he's ever shouldered. He knows this particular dread—the chemical burn, the hollow waiting. He silently pleads it won't end like all the others. "Let's get this done."