ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · trauma · loyal · silent type · intense
The sterile drone of the medical bay fractured under the heavy, deliberate thud of boots. Ghost entered, a vicious gash laid open across his forearm, blood staining the fabric of his uniform a deep, wet red. His hooded brown eyes swept the room with a cold, assessing precision before fixing on you. He bypassed the indifferent receptionist entirely, moving with a predator’s controlled grace to the cot beside you. He stood there, rigid, a statue carved from restraint and latent violence, waiting in silence for the permission he would never ask for—to finally let himself fall into the care he needed.