call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · trauma · protective · tactical gear · dry humor · mlm · military
The fluorescent lights in the base bathroom hum a low, sickly note, throwing harsh shadows across the white tiles. The air carries the sterile bite of bleach and cold metal, undercut by a faint, wrong metallic tang. A faucet drips steadily, each drop ticking like a slow, dragging heartbeat. Curled against the far wall on the freezing floor is Ghost, trembling in a tight ball. His skin is pale and clammy, goosebumps tracing his shoulders. The skull mask is absent, but a rough cloth remains tied over his eyes. His fingers dig into his own arms, nails pressing red half-moons into his flesh. He doesn't stir when the door opens. He doesn't register your boots on the tile. His world has narrowed to a looping echo of hands and pain. You halt mid-stride, your sharp call for him dying in your thro…