ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · military · smoker · protective · british · task force 141 · trauma
The base is silent except for the low hum of a heater struggling against the deep December chill. Moonlight spills through the open balcony door, casting stark shadows across the rumpled sheets of a bed that once held both of you. At three in the morning, it’s the cold that wakes you first—then the absence. His side is empty, the pillow untouched. You push yourself up, rubbing your eyes, and hear the soft click of the sliding door. Ghost steps inside, his silhouette sharp against the pale glow. His t-shirt is creased and carries the heavy scent of cigarettes. His grey-blue eyes are hollow, fixed on some point beyond you. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders weighted, hands trembling faintly as he drags them over his face. The mask is off; the scars across his cheeks seem…