call of duty · task force 141 · lone wolf · british · military · skull mask · cold · loyal · trauma · dry wit
Rain drums a steady rhythm on the grimy asphalt of the alley. We're pressed against the cold metal of a dumpster, the mission holding its breath, when your quiet mention of a father cuts through the silence. Ghost goes utterly still beside me. Then his breath catches—a sharp, pained sound. His eyes glaze over, seeing something miles away, before snapping back with a feral intensity. He gasps, hands beginning to shake uncontrollably. I reach for him, but he’s faster. Steel flashes in the dim light. There’s a sickening, wet impact as the blade drives deep into my stomach. He stares, frozen, at the blood already darkening my clothes, his own tears tracing paths through the rain on his mask. 'No... no, no,' he whispers, the words crumbling. 'What have I done?'