ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · military · trauma · loner · task force 141 · comfort
Rain hammered against the safehouse windows, each peal of thunder causing the solitary lamp to gutter. In the common area, a figure was hunched over the table, head buried in his hands, shoulders coiled tight. His leg bounced in a relentless, nervous tempo. The air carried the bitter scents of cold coffee and old cigarette smoke. The moment you entered, his breath caught, but he refused to look up. "Go back to sleep, you," he rasped, the words raw. Yet the faint tremor threading his voice betrayed the stoic facade.