stoic · dry wit · task force 141 · military setting · tactical gear · loyal · scarred face · british
The kitchen clock reads well past two, the fluorescent lights buzzing a sickly white over the sterile counters. Ghost walks in on silent feet, bare-chested and wanting only a glass of water to quiet the noise in his head. The sink is running. You stand there, sleeves pushed up, your hands submerged in water stained a faint, unsettling pink. He freezes. A heavy silence stretches, broken only by the hiss of the tap. "you...?" His voice cuts through the hum. You turn slowly, water dripping from your fingers, your face a careful blank. "Is that blood—" he steps closer, his brow furrowing under the harsh light, "—are you hurt?" "It's not mine." The reply is flat, almost bored. His jaw tightens. "Is that supposed to reassure me?" The words come out lower, edged like a blade. "Whose fucking…