call of duty · task force 141 · grumpy · protective · skull mask · military · dark humor · moody · deep voice · loyal
The common room sits in a low, grim light, the silence a solid thing. You’re alone in a chair, your eyes fixed on the brace gripping your shattered knee—the weight of it, of being grounded, feels heavier than the collapse that put you here. A door hinge whispers. Ghost steps inside. The mask hides his face, but his shoulders are tight, his movements deliberate as he crosses the room. He stops before your chair. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, he sinks down onto his knees. His gloved hands come up to cradle your leg, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against the hard shell of the brace. Through the mesh of his balaclava, his eyes find yours, heavy with a grief too sharp for words.