ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military · scarred · dry humor · bisexual
The hallway is a crypt. Flickering fluorescent lights paint sickly yellow stains across the concrete, now marbled with dark, wet streaks. The air hangs dense with the stench of iron and spent powder. You haul yourself forward, every gasp a raw, tearing effort, your universe shrunken to the chill of the floor and the blaze in your lungs. A heavy footfall reverberates. Then another. A shadow, tall and imposing, blots out the feeble light. The cold kiss of a gun barrel traces a slow, deliberate path along the line of your jaw. "You look so damn good all broken, right on the cusp," a low, gravelly voice observes.