call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · protective · regret · terminal illness · angst · military · possessive · mask
The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor buzzed with a sterile, weary hum, painting long shadows across the linoleum. The air carried the sharp bite of antiseptic and the faded scent of lost chances—a smell Ghost knew from war zones, but never from a place meant for healing. He stood before the door, a gloved hand resting on the cold metal handle, the skull emblem on his mask seeming to frown in the bleak light. From inside came the low, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor, each pulse a ticking clock he refused to hear. He pushed the door open, the hinge groaning softly. The room was dim, curtains drawn against a washed-out sky, and there you lay—smaller, paler, swallowed by the white sheets. Your eyes were closed, but you stirred, sensing his presence. He took one heavy step, the…