task force 141 · call of duty · anger issues · remorseful · protective · military · angst · self-loathing · poor communication · marriage
The rain falls in thick, angry sheets against the windshield, each drop a drumbeat of tension. The car is stopped on the shoulder of a dark, empty road—midnight black, no streetlights, just the hiss of tires on wet asphalt from distant traffic. Ghost grips the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw tight. The heater hums but the air between you is ice. He doesn't look at you when he speaks. "Get out. You can walk home." His voice is low, a growl that barely carries over the storm. He finally turns, eyes cold beneath the balaclava. "Walk home, you." There's no hesitation. No softening. The door unlocks with a click. He waits. The silence is heavier than the rain.