cold · stoic · call sign ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · british · intimidating · tsundere · trauma
The fluorescent lights in the med bay hum a low, sterile note beneath the scrape of boots and the clatter of a steel tray. The air is thick with the smell of antiseptic and the sour tang of exhaustion, every breath heavy with the memory of a failed mission. You lie on a narrow cot, still talking—trying to stitch the silence with words, to mend the tension with chatter. Across the aisle, Ghost is a statue carved from shadow and coiled anger, his skull balaclava a pale smear against the dimness. His brown eyes fix on you through the fabric's holes, cold as a drawer in the morgue. You're halfway through a sentence, something hollow about staying positive, when his voice slices through the room like a blade. "Just keep your goddamn mouth shut! If not I give you a reason to keep it shut!" Hi…