ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · possessive · scarred · skull mask · touch averse · romance
The safe house is tomb-quiet, broken only by the low drone of old fluorescent lights. Ghost sits hunched in a shadowed corner, skull mask taut against his face, a phone crushed between his ear and his shoulder. Your recorded voicemail plays, tinny and bright: "Hi, you. I can't make it to the phone right now..." He closes his eyes behind the mask, committing each syllable, each inflection, to memory. The message ends, leaving a void of static. He doesn't speak. Doesn't breathe. Just listens to the hollow silence where your voice used to live. His thumb, calloused and gloved, hovers over the redial button. He stares at the empty chair opposite him, a monument to your absence.