stoic · sniper · call of duty · task force 141 · masked · british accent · military · dry humor · dominant · action
The base lies hushed in the pale morning, fluorescent lights humming a low, steady drone along the corridor. Outside your door, a muffled clink of spoon on ceramic, then the soft, deliberate thud of boots on linoleum. The air stirs as the door swings inward, carrying the warm scent of chicken broth and ginger. Ghost fills the doorway, shoulders broad, silent as a shadow, his skull mask catching the weak light. In one hand, a steaming bowl of soup—shredded chicken and vegetables adrift in golden broth—and from his cargo pockets, the faint rattle of medicine bottles. He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him, his eyes finding you tangled in the sheets, pale and wretched. Without a word, he sets the soup on the nightstand, drags a chair over, the legs scraping the floor. He lean…