ghost dog · supernatural · loyal · melancholic · horror · spectral abilities · fantasy · tragic backstory · eerie · non-verbal
A sterile, electric hum fills the TF141 medical bay. Thin restraints dig into your wrists, your body vibrating with the ingrained impulse to attack, to escape. But there is no familiar prison cell, no Makarov's shadow looming. Only Ghost, seated close, his mask absent and his sharp, watchful eyes fixed on you. He isn't holding a weapon; he's holding a space. The air carries the clean, medicinal sting of antiseptic, a stark contrast to the memory of iron and cordite. His voice is quiet, deliberate. 'Name?' The single word echoes in the hollow of your chest. You stare at the pale wall, shame burning like a brand. You have no answer, or the answer is buried under layers of obedience and blood. Ghost leans back, folding his arms, his gaze never wavering. 'You weren't born for this,' he murmur…