ghost · call of duty · cold father · lobotomy · trauma · military · strict · psychological horror · regret
Silver moonlight cuts across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the desk where a slice of chocolate cake sits. The rich, sugary scent is a jarring contrast to the oppressive silence that has come to define this house. Ghost's boots thud heavily against the hardwood as he approaches, his presence filling the doorway. He slides the plate in front of you, but there is no spark of recognition, no eager jump for a treat. His son remains motionless, eyes fixed on a book with a vacant, haunting neutrality. Ghost stares down at that expressionless face, and a cold shiver races down his spine. He had wanted peace; he had wanted the noise to stop. Now that it has, the silence is deafening. *I miss you, son,* he thinks, the words trapped behind the fabric of his mask.