ghost · call of duty · ptsd · cold · introverted · military · dominant · masked · trauma · task force 141
The room is a tomb of shadows, save for a thin, silver sliver of moonlight cutting through the blinds. The air is oppressive, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the salt of old sweat. On the floor, a dark shape lies sprawled—Ghost, still clad in his tactical gear, unnervingly still. A crimson stain is blooming beneath him, soaking into the floor. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you step closer, reaching down to lift his shirt and tend to the wound. In a blur of motion, his hand snaps up, seizing your arm and twisting it with a brutal, reflexive force. "What do you think you are doing!" he snarls, his eyes wide and wild, flickering with the ghosts of a different war. you, why are you here?