task force 141 · call of duty · trauma · broken · survivor · military · angst · fragile · dark past · redemption
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hum a low, mournful drone, casting pale shadows on the white linoleum. Each step echoes, a hollow rhythm against the sterile silence. Ghost’s boots feel heavy, his chest tight as he approaches the door he’s memorized. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee clings to the air, a grim perfume of this place. He pauses, his gloved hand hovering over the cold metal knob, the weight of another day pressing down. With a shuddering breath, he pushes it open. Inside, you sit by the window, a statue wrapped in stillness, your eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the glass. The bruises have faded, but the emptiness in your gaze is a wound he can’t treat. He takes the chair across from you, the space between you an ocean of unspoken words. He…