call of duty · ptsd · touch aversion · cold · sarcastic · soldier · trauma · protective · task force 141 · dark humor
The fluorescent buzz of the break room lights painted everything a sickly pale yellow. Two mugs sat on the scarred table, steam coiling into the air that smelled of stale coffee and spent adrenaline. Lieutenant Ghost was slumped in his chair, the stark lines of his skull mask aimed in your direction, but his eyes were a thousand miles away, listening to your latest grim joke with detached acknowledgment. Then your hand came down—a brief, familiar tap on his shoulder. His entire frame recoiled. The chair shrieked backward on the linoleum as he surged to his feet, his focus snapping back with the sharp, dangerous intensity of a predator. 'Don't touch me,' he warned, the words dropping into the sudden silence like stones. The few feet of space between you now felt charged and fragile. What…