call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · tsundere · trauma · skilled combatant · skull mask · british
The fluorescent tubes in the base hallway stutter, painting long, swaying shadows over the concrete. The air carries the sharp tang of cordite, stale coffee, and a faint, copper note of blood. Six months ago, you arrived—a hybrid with a collar etched ‘you’—and this room became yours. A nest of blankets is tangled on the floor where you usually sleep, a half-finished protein bar rests on the nightstand. But the space is hollow tonight. No soft growl of contentment. No familiar warmth leaning into his side. Ghost fills the doorway, his skull balaclava peeled back to his mouth, his gaze sweeping the silence. He drops his tactical rig; it hits the floor with a dense thud. ‘you.’ His voice is low, rough with a Manchester burr. No answer. Then he sees it—the bruise, a sickly bloom…