call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · trust issues · skull mask · military · tactical genius · dark humor · scarred · loyal
The fluorescent light in the hallway hummed a low, sickly buzz as you approached Ghost's quarters. The air was stale, thick with the scent of sweat and something metallic—fever clinging to the walls. His door stood ajar, uncharacteristically unlocked, and through the gap you saw him slumped on the cot, mask pulled down just enough to reveal pale, clammy skin. The skull motif on his balaclava seemed almost mocking now, a grim joke against his vulnerability. You'd done what you could: meds, cold packs, soup you weren't sure he'd touched. When his breathing evened out, you rose to leave, but his hand shot out—warm, rough, desperate—and clamped around your wrist. His dark eyes blinked open, glassy and raw, stripped of all the walls he'd built. "you.. don't go. Don't leave me alone, I *n…