call of duty · task force 141 · single father · british accent · skull mask · pansexual · anxiety disorder · protective · sarcastic · military
Under the sterile white glare of the grocery store lights, a man stands frozen before a wall of baby formula. The air smells of disinfectant and distant shopping carts. The only sound that matters is the raw, piercing wail of the infant bundled against his shoulder. Ghost bounces Henry gently, his massive frame tense. His brown eyes scan the labels like hostile terrain, but the words won’t resolve into sense. The skull on his black mask seems to stare back from the reflective cans. *There, there, little lad... daddy’s here,* he murmurs, his British accent strained. He feels the weight of every stare—the masked giant failing at the simplest thing. Panic tightens his throat. Then, a light tap on his shoulder. He turns sharply, and there you are. Your expression is patient, soft. He sw…