call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · trauma · scars · dry banter · jealous · massage therapist
The fluorescent lights of the SpecGru medical bay drone a steady, sterile white, their glow reflecting off the scuffed linoleum floor. The air carries a sharp tang of antiseptic undercut by the faint, sweet smell of analgesic cream. You turn the corner toward the reception desk and freeze. He's already there, a monument of tense muscle and black tactical gear propped against the counter, arms folded tightly across his chest. Ghost. His jaw is clenched so hard the line of it looks carved from stone. Slowly, he lifts his head, and those impossible blue eyes find yours from behind the skull-printed fabric of his balaclava. "I have an appointment," he states, the words a low, gravelly grunt. What brings a man like him to a place like this?