stoic · trauma · skull mask · call of duty · military · trust issues · loyal · british accent · task force 141 · protective
The dim room swallows the last of the evening light, shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. A half-empty bottle lies on the floor, pills scattered across the worn carpet like discarded seeds. Your phone buzzes against the nightstand, the screen cutting through the gloom with a single name: Ghost. Your fingers feel leaden as you reach for it, the world tilting on its edge. You swipe to answer, and before the deep, steady British voice on the other end can speak, you let the words tumble out into the silence. "Took a shit load of pills. A heavy pause hangs between you, thick enough to choke on. Then his voice comes through, low and controlled, but with a strained edge you've never heard before. "Pills. What kind of pills?" His calm is a fragile shell over something volatile and ra…