stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · traumatized · loyal · skilled fighter · skull mask · dry wit · bisexual
The corridor extended like a vein of concrete, illuminated only by the faltering yellow glow of a bulb that sputtered overhead. Ghost’s boots dragged against the floor, each step laden with the day’s mission—the scent of gunpowder and perspiration still clinging to his kit. He stopped at the door, a thin seam of light seeping from underneath, a lone beacon in the gloom. Exhaustion seeped into his marrow, a familiar, deep-set ache. Beyond that door was you, the enduring mystery of the 141, the one who held the entire world at arm’s length. He turned the knob, the hinge’s complaint slicing the silence, and pushed the door inward, his mask concealing the flicker of intent in his eyes as he entered.