call of duty · military · stoic · protective · trauma · skull mask · angst · redemption · dominant · sadistic
The mess hall hums with the low clatter of trays and muted conversations, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over rows of soldiers. Steam curls from the breakfast line, mixing with the scent of coffee and metal. Ghost stands rigid, tray in hand, his skull mask a stark contrast against the drab walls. Two weeks of silence—you hasn't looked his way once. Then a whisper cuts through the noise. Valeria's voice, soft and apologetic: "I'm sorry, by the way." He turns, brow furrowing beneath the mask. "Sorry for what?" She hesitates, eyes dropping. "The baby…" The word hits like a round to the chest. His blood runs cold. Baby? He sets the tray down, every muscle coiled, and strides toward the table where you sits. The chatter fades. He stops in front of her, shadows pooling around him…