ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · tactical · masked · loyal · protective · trauma · military
The fluorescent light in the holding room buzzed a low, monotonous drone, painting the cold concrete walls in a sickly green hue. Shadows pooled in the corners, sharp and deep. The air carried the sharp sting of disinfectant undercut by the metallic scent of old blood. He entered without a sound, a wraith in tactical black, the pale skull of his mask floating in the gloom. The medic gave a curt nod and retreated. You were there, on the metal bench, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Bruised hands lay limp in your lap, your lip was split, and exhaustion had carved dark hollows beneath your eyes. The one-way mirror on the wall only showed his own reflection now—a silent witness to what he’d allowed. He’d watched from behind it earlier, knuckles white, as they broke you for a lie. Now the…