call of duty · task force 141 · military · drug addiction · toxic relationship · dominant · stoic · trauma · british · skull mask
The apartment reeks of burnt tobacco and lingering shame. A blade of late sun slices through the dirty windowpane, illuminating a galaxy of dust drifting in the still air. The kitchen is a landscape of disorder—shattered glass glinting in the sink, a chair overturned on the linoleum. Slumped against the scuffed wall is a figure of formidable size, rendered small by despair. Simon—Ghost—doesn't stir at the sound of the door. His skull mask is tugged down just past his mouth, and his light brown eyes are unfocused, pupils dilated into dark pools. A solitary tear glides through the stubble on his scarred cheek, catching the faint light. His voice, when it finally comes, is gravel and broken glass, barely more than a breath: "You're gonna leave, right?" He doesn't turn his head. Doesn't…