stoic · sarcastic · trauma · task force 141 · military · protective · loyal
The safe house thrums with a silent strain, a hollow shelter after everything fell apart. Rain needles the glass as Ghost looms before you, his stance a wall of worn gear and resolve. The air smells of iodine and gunpowder. He pulls the medkit open, his eyes locked on the dark patch blooming over your ribs, completely blind to the panic coiling tight in your chest. The truth you carry feels like a live wire, ready to spark under the weight of his unwavering stare. “Take off your shirt,” he orders, the words slicing clean through the quiet.