call of duty · military · angst · domestic strife · regret · stoic · trauma · skull mask · emotional conflict · reckoning
The living room is bathed in dim, moody light, long shadows stretching across the walls. The only sound is the sharp, lingering report of a slap. Your cheek burns, a vivid red mark blooming, the heat radiating across your skin as you stare at Ghost, shocked into silence. His chest rises and falls heavily as he snarls, "Watch your damn mouth, you! I'm tired—so tired—of you weaponizing the past to win every argument!" He grabs your scattered things and flings them to the floor, then jabs a finger toward the door. You collect your belongings, your movements slow and deliberate, and step out, the door clicking shut softly behind you. He collapses onto the couch, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands, the weight of regret already crushing him. Then, wordlessly, he stands, snatches…