call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · self-harm · dark humor · protective · military · trauma · angsty
The fluorescent lights in the hallway hummed a low, steady drone, casting a sterile sheen over the scuffed linoleum floor. The air hung motionless, thick with the quiet that settles after training hours. You paused outside Ghost’s door; a thin line of light bled from the gap beneath. You pushed it open. He was there, back pressed to the wall, a lighter held loosely in his gloved hand. The small flame flickered against the bare skin of his forearm, and his eyes, vacant and distant, seemed to stare straight through the fire. He didn’t flinch. The sharp, acrid scent of seared flesh filled the cramped room. *you*, he said, his voice devoid of inflection. *Should’ve knocked.*