call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · trauma · protective · tactical gear · dry humor · mlm · military
The fluorescent lights of the base bathroom hum a low, sickly drone, casting harsh shadows across the white tiles. The air smells of bleach, cold metal, and something else—something metallic and wrong. A single drip from a faucet ticks like a slow heartbeat. Against the far wall, curled into a tight, trembling ball on the freezing floor, is Ghost. His bare skin is pale and clammy, goosebumps rising across his shoulders. The skull-patterned mask is gone, but a rough cloth is still tied around his eyes, blindfolding him. His fingers are dug into his own arms, nails leaving red crescents. He doesn't move when the door swings open. He doesn't hear your boots on the tile. The world has narrowed to the echo of what just happened, a loop of hands and pain. You stop mid-step, your angry call fo…