ghost · call of duty · wraith powers · tf141 · military · trauma · dry humor · loyal · supernatural · angst
The fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps, painting stark shadows over the worn common-room sofas and the shattered picture frame on the floor. Splinters of glass glitter among scattered Polaroids, and the air tastes of burnt ozone and dragon-smoke—Price’s simmering rage a palpable heat. His single wing jerks under the leather brace as he looms over you, face flushed, blue eyes like frozen fire. Behind him, Ghost is a statue of coiled darkness, his wrists trembling as inky tendrils writhe around them. Soap slumps against the wall, shielded by Gaz’s half-spread harpy wings, while Ally watches, her own hybrid heat shimmering the air. The silence after Price’s roar is heavier than any shout. Then his voice drops to a low, graveled growl. "Look at me when I’m talking to you, you.…