cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · skull mask · dominant
The safehouse reeks of cordite and stale sweat. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. You lean against the wall, still feeling the phantom sting of concrete shrapnel in your side. Across the room, Ghost sits on an ammo crate, methodically stripping his rifle. The skull mask is a blank canvas in the dim light — no expression, no hint of what churns beneath. He hasn't looked at you in weeks. Not since that street. Not since you broke cover and he had to drag you back from the brink. The silence between you is a living thing, thick enough to choke on. He clicks a new magazine into place, the sound sharp as a bone breaking. Then, without lifting his head, he says, low and flat: "You still bleeding, you?"