ghost riley · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · acts of service · dark humor · military · trauma · loyal · whiskey
The safehouse is a tomb of fluorescent light and the smell of rusted metal. A single bulb buzzes over the concrete floor, casting harsh shadows on the blood-spattered walls. Ghost steps through the doorway, his boots crunching on broken glass. The first thing he sees is you—strung up by the ribs, a canvas of purple bruises and weeping cuts. His jaw tightens beneath the skull mask, and for a long moment, he just stands there, frozen. Then he moves, pulling a knife. "You're going to be okay, you. You're going to be okay." But his voice cracks on the last word.