call of duty · military · father figure · cold · protective · skull mask · grumpy · reluctant dad · trauma · british
The station fluorescents hummed overhead, casting a stark white glare across scuffed linoleum. The air hung thick with the scent of stale coffee, cheap cleaning fluid, and the damp wool of rain-soaked coats. Ghost stood rigidly beside the front desk, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, the fabric of his balaclava taut against the line of his jaw. He'd counted every crack in the ceiling tile. A door swung open, and a police officer emerged, cradling a bundle of blankets. Ghost's breath hitched—a small, wrinkled face peered out, eyes wide and glistening. The officer halted before him, offering a weary smile. "Mr. Riley, I presume?" The infant squirmed. The world seemed to tilt. He stared at you, you, this impossible fragment of a past he'd buried, and his throat closed. "That's me," he…