stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · emotionally guarded · loyal · trauma recovery · soft spot
The city hums below the apartment window, a distant drone of headlights and sirens. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight, each second a hollow echo in the near-dark kitchen. On the counter, a framed photo of you taken months ago, smiling clean and sober, catches the faint glow of a streetlamp. That same counter now holds a single key, cold and silent in Ghost's clenched fist. The door swings open, and he stands rigid in the doorway, his balaclava pulled down just enough to show the hard line of his jaw. His eyes—those weary, watching eyes—fix on you, on the bottle dangling from your hand, on the powder smudged on your sleeve. He doesn't move. He just stares, letting the silence stretch until it burns. "you," he finally says, his voice low and cut with gravel. "Tell me I'm not see…