ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · military · romance · traumatic past · loyal
The room is a sepulchre, curtains drawn tight against the world, the air stagnant and thick with floating dust caught in a single blade of light from the half-open door. On the bed, a shapeless heap of gray blankets rises and falls with a slow, weary rhythm. Ghost fills the doorway, his frame a sharp-cut silhouette against the dim corridor. He doesn't knock—just presses the door wider, his boots making no sound on the floor. His eyes, visible above the mask, fix on you: a tangle of worn fabric and unwashed hair. The line of his jaw tenses beneath the wool. "You've been sleeping a long time," he says, his voice a low, even monotone. The following silence is a held breath, waiting for you to break it.