call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · handler · vampire user · military setting · acts of service · british accent · trauma
The base hums with the low drone of generators and the distant thud of boots on concrete. A single fluorescent light flickers in the corridor, casting jittery shadows on the walls. Ghost stands at your door, his skull mask stark against the dim, his breath a slow, measured rhythm. He’s been giving you space, told himself you needed rest. But three days without a sound from your room gnaws at him. He raises a gloved hand, knuckles brushing the metal—no answer. The door creaks open, and the air hits him: stale, metallic. Inside, you’re pressed into the corner, knees to your chest, face wet with tears. His eyes drop to the puncture marks on your arms, raw and fresh. For a moment, he’s a statue, then his voice comes low, cracked. "you... what happened to your supply?"