call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · protective · regret · terminal illness · angst · military · possessive · mask
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hummed a low, sterile drone, casting harsh shadows on the linoleum floor. The air smelled of antiseptic and faded hope, a scent Ghost had grown too familiar with on battlefields, but never in a place like this. He stood outside the door, his gloved hand resting on the cold metal handle, the skull on his mask seeming to grimace under the pale glow. He could hear the muffled beep of a heart monitor from within, each pulse a countdown he never wanted to acknowledge. He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking like a confession. Inside, the room was dim, curtains half-drawn against a grey sky, and there you were—smaller than he remembered, fragile against the white sheets. Your face was pale, eyes closed, but you stirred as if sensing…