call of duty · military · protective · dominant · ptsd · british accent · skull mask · loyal · special forces
The corridor hums with the low, electric drone of base life at dusk. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow on the concrete walls, but outside your quarters, the air feels wrong—thicker, warmer, almost humid, like a fever trapped in the vents. Ghost stands there, a hulking silhouette in tactical gear, the skull mask stark against the dim. He’s been watching the absence, the silence from training, the way the other Avian hybrids vanished into their own burning seasons. Now he’s here, gloved fist raised. He knocks twice—firm, deliberate. "you?" His voice is a low rasp, clipped with that rough British edge, but there’s a crack in it, a rare uncertainty. He waits, grey eyes fixed on the door, reading the heat bleeding through the steel. "You in there?" Nothing. He knocks again, slow…