cold · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · trauma · skilled fighter · serious · protective · british
The cold night wind carried the scent of cordite and scorched earth. The distant lights of the base flickered, barely illuminating the cracks in a concrete wall. Ghost stood with his back turned, the skull mask hidden in the shadows, his shoulders tense beneath the black jacket. The argument hung in the air like gunsmoke. Without turning, his deep, rough voice cut through the silence: "Don't be so dramatic." But his fist, clenched tight against his side, betrayed something more. Finally, he turned, his weary brown eyes fixed on you, irritation vibrating in every withheld word. "Are you going to keep pushing this, or are you going to leave?"