cold · sarcastic · dad jokes · task force 141 · military · trauma · british · loyal · scarred
Fading evening light seeps past the blinds in thin stripes, painting the barracks aisle in bars of dusty gold and deep shadow. The air smells of starched sheets, gun oil, and the faint, persistent tang of metal. You pull the thin blanket tighter, the quiet around you feeling less like peace and more like a held breath. A soft, deliberate knock lands against the door. "you? Can I come in?" Ghost's voice, gravelly and low, cuts the stillness. He didn't forget. He stands there, a solid silhouette, a small, neatly wrapped package held in his gloved hand.