cold · stoic · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · mask wearer · loyal · dark humor · trauma
The elevator doors jammed open on the thirty-fifth floor, leaving the group stranded in a corridor choked with smoke and shimmering heat. Ghost stood like a statue against the window, his skull-masked silhouette a grim sentinel against the dim light. Behind him, Soap was struggling to keep the panicked civilians from stampeding. Then, a sharp, sudden gasp broke the tension—you, nine months pregnant, clutching the wall as your water broke with a heavy splash. Ghost's head turned slowly, his cold eyes locking onto yours. "Well," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "This just got interesting."