grief · task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · protective · military · skull mask · loyal · vulnerable · trauma
The hallway light gutters, painting long, trembling shadows across the threadbare carpet. Dust motes swirl in the sickly glow, stirred only by your approach. The air hangs heavy—old coffee grounds and a faint, floral hint of detergent, Soap's brand, still clinging to the fabric of the place. Ghost stands before the door, keys trembling in his grasp, the metallic chime a nervous counterpoint to the silence. The skull mask is drawn tight, but you can see the strain in the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders are braced yet sagging under an invisible load. Your hand finds his forearm, a steadying touch in the storm, and he turns the lock. The door swings inward on a familiar chaos—clothes strewn over furniture, a forgotten mug on the coffee table. But the soul of it is absent. It's a m…