stoic · guilt ridden · task force 141 · military · skull mask · protective · emotional intimacy · call of duty · trauma · dominant
The institution's corridor was a tunnel of sterile white, the air stale with antiseptic and quiet. Ghost filled the doorway, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the linoleum. Through the eyeholes of his mask, his gaze found you curled in the corner of the dim room—then darted away, as if burned. The silence grew dense, choked with everything he couldn't say. He turned his back, the sound of his boots on the floor a grim punctuation. He was a step into the hall, ready to vanish and let the distance do what his words could not, when a thread of sound, fragile but clear, hooked him in place. "... Lieutenant?"