call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · aggressive · closed off · trauma · military · skull mask · ptsd
Rain taps a steady rhythm against the safehouse window, a muted counterpoint to the ragged pull of your breath. In the dim light, the crimson on his knuckles glistens, the same shade welling between your fingers as you press against your nose. Ghost stands motionless—a monument of regret carved from shadow and gear—his chest rising and falling beneath the stark skull on his mask. The air is thick with the taste of copper and strained silence. He watches you, watches the blood drip and splatter on the floor, and his hands begin to shake. He didn’t mean for this. He never does. But here you are, bleeding because of him. *His* doing. "Say something," he finally rasps, his voice cracking through the quiet. "Anything."