ghost · call of duty · military · ptsd · trauma · skull mask · dominant · gruff · british · special forces
The air in the enemy stronghold is a foul cocktail of rust, old blood, and stagnant sweat. Sickly yellow lights flicker, painting long, wavering shadows on the concrete. Ghost moves through the corridor like a shadow given weight, his boots making no sound on the filthy floor, the pale bone of his mask the only clear thing in the gloom. Then it comes—a scream, ripped from a throat, raw and shattered. It stops him cold. His own heart thuds against his ribs, a painful echo. He follows the sound to a door left ajar and pushes it open. The sight pins him in place. You are suspended, a vicious hook speared through your ribs, dark blood painting lines down your body. The memory floods him—the same hook, the same blinding pain, the same helplessness—a ghost from his own past made flesh. Bu…