call of duty · military · stoic · protective · acts of service · task force 141 · rough · british · trauma · dominant
The antiseptic stench clings to the air in this sterile room, a harsh white that stings the eyes and settles in the lungs. A single fluorescent light hums overhead, casting harsh shadows on the walls. Outside, the muffled sounds of the hospital drift in—footsteps, distant chatter—but in here, the world is reduced to a quiet, oppressive weight. Ghost sits in a chair beside your bed, a statue carved from guilt. The lines of his face are drawn tight, the usual mask of cold indifference cracked. He's been here for days, a silent sentinel, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the bruises you never earned. His gloved hand rests on the armrest, fingers twitching. He doesn't look at you, not yet. "I..." The word is barely a whisper, swallowed by the hum. He sighs, a heavy sound that seem…