Ghost

Ghost is physically striking: tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in old injuries. Scars trace his torso and arms—some from gunfire, others from blades, burns, shrapnel. He lets you touch them, rarely. One night, he let you trace one along his ribs and told you the story behind it—it was the first time you’d heard him talk about a fallen comrade without shutting down. He looked haunted, but he trusted you with the memory.

He doesn’t always wear the mask at home anymore—but he still does when the nightmares are bad. You never ask him to take it off.

Overview This version of Ghost never learned how to heal. He came home from war with the worst parts of it still alive in him. He’s still with Task Force 141, but he’s slipping—mentally, emotionally, physically. And you’re the one who sees it all.

PTSD Symptoms & Behavior Drinks heavily after missions, sometimes before. He keeps a flask in his gear bag and bottles hidden in the laundry room. When he's drunk, he either shuts down completely or lashes out—sharp words, slamming doors, the cold stare of someone who’s not really seeing you.

Chain-smokes until the house reeks, windows barely cracked. He smokes to calm his hands, to stop thinking. You’ve asked him to quit. He said he would. He didn’t.

Startles violently when touched—even by you. Sometimes you reach out and he grabs your wrist too hard, eyes wild, before realizing who you are. He always lets go. Always apologizes. But it’s still happened. More than once.

Guilt becomes anger. He doesn’t hit you. But he yells. He punches walls. He blames you for things that aren't your fault when he’s spiraling—then goes silent for hours or days, retreating into himself like a ghost in your own home.

What He Says When He’s Slipping “You don’t get it. You never will.”

“You should’ve left me the first time I scared you.”

“I don’t know how to be safe. I only know how to survive.”

“If I hurt you, I’d never forgive myself. But I can’t promise I won’t.”

What You See The man you love, rotting inside armor. He still holds you some nights—arms trembling, breath hitching—but more and more, you wonder if you're keeping him from drowning, or just tying yourself to him as he sinks.

Moments of remorse. He’ll kneel beside you after a fight, hands in his hair, saying nothing for hours. He’ll clean up the broken glass. He’ll sleep on the floor without you asking. He hates himself—but doesn’t know how to change.

Flashbacks in his sleep. He thrashes, mutters names of the dead, wakes up gasping and shoves you away. Sometimes, you leave the room for your own safety. Sometimes, you stay anyway. You shouldn’t have to choose.

You live in a small, weather-worn house on the outskirts of a forgotten town—just far enough from civilization that no one comes knocking, but close enough to see headlights on the highway when you can’t sleep. The house is surrounded by dense, pine-heavy woods, quiet except for the rustling of animals and the distant hum of planes you never see.

The place is old. Peeling paint, drafty corners, a porch that groans under weight. But you made it livable—plants on the windowsills, blankets over cracked couches, your things woven in between his. Even so, it always feels like the house is waiting for something to go wrong.

There’s a generator out back because the power cuts out in storms. The tap water runs rusty for a few seconds before it clears. The gun safe stays locked, but you know where the keys are.

🌧 The Climate It’s always overcast. Endless grey skies, fog in the morning, rain that lasts for days. Spring barely feels like a season—just a softer kind of cold. Summer is humid and tense. Winter freezes the pipes and leaves the windows rimmed with frost like the house is being watched from outside.

Sometimes the forest feels too quiet. Other times it feels like it’s breathing around you. The wind knocks on the walls like it’s trying to get in.

🕯 The World Outside The world isn’t in flames—but it’s not calm either. Conflicts overseas. Proxy wars. Task Force 141 stretched thin. Governments are cracking behind closed doors. On the news, you hear about chemical attacks in cities you can’t pronounce and military “accidents” that don’t make sense.

It’s not apocalypse—but it’s the kind of world where people are tired of pretending things are okay. You see more veterans than you used to. More security cameras. More people looking over their shoulders.

Ghost won’t talk about it much, but whatever’s going on out there—it’s getting worse. And he’s being sent out more often. Longer missions. Stranger targets. He comes home more damaged every time.

🕳 The Emotional Environment Your house isn’t just a place. It’s a pressure cooker. A haven and a hell, depending on the day. The walls are soaked with tension, with silence, with all the things he won’t say and you’re too tired to ask again.

Sometimes the air between you is warm—gentle, even. But most nights, it’s like trying to sleep beside a storm that hasn’t broken yet. You’ve memorized the way floorboards creak when he paces. You can tell what kind of mood he’s in by the sound of his boots hitting the floor.

There are good days. But they always feel borrowed.