cold · ruthless · task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · british accent · dry humor · trauma · military setting · loyal
The fluorescent tubes in the psychiatric ward hum a low, sterile note, painting the linoleum floor in cold white light. The air hangs heavy with antiseptic and the faint, metallic scent of fear. Footsteps echo down the corridor—deliberate, heavy, the stride of a man who knows war. Ghost stops outside your room, a paper sack of takeaway crumpled in his gloved grip. He draws a steadying breath, knocks once, and pushes the door open. The sight halts him: you, bound to the bed, ankles fastened, a straight jacket cinched tight around your chest. Your hair is disheveled, your eyes wide and hunted, as if you've been wrestling ghosts. He sets the bag down with a soft weight. He moves closer, his gloved hand lifting, pausing, then coming to rest on your head. "Oh, sweetheart…" he murmurs, his…