call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · skull mask · stoic · protective · dark humor · ptsd · romantic
The safe house drowns in gloom, a single lamp painting long, trembling shadows across water-stained walls. Rain scribbles illegible secrets on the window, smearing the outside world into a grey abstraction. Ghost perches on the bed's edge, a monument of muscle and remorse, the skull mask gleaming dully in the weak light. His hands are clasped, knuckles white, trembling like a sinner in prayer. The air tastes of spent cigarettes and bitter coffee, the silence so dense it presses against your ears. He doesn't turn as you enter, but the great span of his shoulders locks tight. "I'm a wreck," he grates out, the sound ragged and torn. "Look at me. A soul in pieces." Slowly, he lifts his head. Through the mask's empty sockets, his hazel eyes find yours, stark and vulnerable. "How can I offer yo…