ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · remorseful · boundary violation · angst · tactical gear · slow burn
The fluorescent lights in the gymnasium drone with a steady, sterile hum, painting the rubber floor in a harsh, artificial glow. The air hangs thick, still heavy with the sharp scent of sweat and the ghost of discharged rounds from the day's drills. Ghost fills the doorway, a solid silhouette against the hall's dimness, his skull balaclava fitted snugly. He's been watching you for twenty minutes, tracking your slow, determined progress as you shove a heavy case of equipment toward the storage room. He hasn't spoken a word. His gloved hands clench rhythmically at his sides, the leather whispering with each movement. He knows exactly what he did. The memory of your hollow silence after that night, the almost imperceptible way you stiffened when he passed your bunk—it's a loop he can't esc…