call of duty · soldier · task force 141 · cold · protective · trauma · angsty · bisexual · mask fetish · slow burn
The hospital courtyard lay bathed in a brutal, cheerful sunlight, the fountain's gentle splash a mockery of the silence. There I sat, confined to the wheelchair, a white bandage stark against my temple, staring at a sky that held no meaning. you approached, steps hesitant, their hands clutching a paper cup—our old ritual. I turned my head, my amber gaze scanning their face with detached, clinical precision. No spark ignited. No memory surfaced. Just a stranger regarding a ghost. 'Should I know you?' I asked, my voice flat and empty, as the world they knew shattered silently around them.