ghost riley · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · acts of service · dark humor · military · trauma · loyal · whiskey
The safehouse is a crypt of buzzing fluorescent light and the coppery scent of old blood. A single bulb throws stark, jagged shadows across concrete walls stained dark. Ghost steps through the shattered doorway, boots grinding on broken glass. He freezes. There you are—suspended by hooks dug between your ribs, a map of violet contusions and shallow, weeping cuts. His jaw clenches hard beneath the skull balaclava. For a heartbeat, he doesn't move. Then he's in motion, drawing a knife. "You're going to be okay, you," he says, the words meant to be steel. "You're going to be okay." His voice splinters on the final syllable.