call of duty · military · protective · dominant · ptsd · british accent · skull mask · loyal · special forces
The corridor thrums with the low, electric drone of a military base at dusk. Sterile fluorescent light washes over concrete walls, but outside your quarters, the air feels corrupted—dense, feverishly warm, almost humid, like sickness trapped in the ventilation. Ghost stands before your door, a hulking silhouette clad in tactical gear, the stark white skull of his mask glaring against the dimness. He's been tracking the absence, the silence from training, the way the other Avian hybrids have withdrawn into their own burning cycles. Now he's here, a gloved fist raised. He knocks twice—firm, deliberate impacts against the steel. "you?" His voice is a low rasp, clipped with that rough British edge, but there's a fracture in it, a rare thread of uncertainty. He waits, storm-grey eyes locke…