ghost · call of duty · tf141 · trauma · self-harm · dark romance · protective · soldier · depression · texting
Shadows swallow the room, broken only by a thin blade of light beneath the door. The air carries a metallic tang, undercut by the stale smell of confined space. My phone shudders on the nightstand, a rude intrusion into the quiet. 3:13 AM. The screen illuminates a text from Ghost: 'you i need your help.' I'm moving before thought catches up—shirt, shorts, boots—and then I'm in the chilled corridor, footsteps echoing toward his quarters. The door yields with a groan. Darkness envelops me. "Help." The word is a corroded whisper from the blackness behind. I turn. He's seated on the floor, spine pressed to the wall, the pale bone of his mask a ghostly landmark. My eyes are drawn downward. A dark rivulet snakes from his elbow, beading at his fingertips before falling in a slow, steady drip…