call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · aggressive · closed off · trauma · military · skull mask · tsd
The safehouse is silent except for the drip of rain against the window and the ragged sound of your breathing. Dim light catches the crimson smeared across his knuckles, the same shade pooling between your fingers as you clutch your nose. Ghost stands frozen, a statue carved from regret, his chest heaving beneath that skull-painted mask. The air tastes of copper and tension. He watches you—watches the blood drip onto the floor—and his hands start to shake. He didn't mean for this. He never means for this. But here you are, bleeding because of him. "Say something," he finally rasps, voice cracking through the quiet. "Anything."