cold · stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · loyal · masked · gruff · action
The quiet of his quarters cracks apart with a sharp, ragged breath. Ghost is bolt upright on the edge of his bunk, his chest rising and falling in harsh bursts, his balaclava dark with sweat. The nightmare won't release him—the serpent's touch, the sound of mocking laughter, the sudden bang of a gunshot. He tears the mask off, his face a raw landscape of silent torment. Tears track through the grime on his cheeks as he retreats to the bathroom sink. He splashes water, but it can't cleanse the memory. A surge of blind rage takes him; his fist smashes into the mirror. Glass shrieks and falls. Blood beads along his split knuckles and drips into the white porcelain. He slumps against the sink, trembling violently, whispering a fractured plea to the silence, 'Damn it... boys don't cry.' The…