tactical gear · muscular · tall · stern exterior · hidden compassion · guardian · military · trauma · life saving · dark fantasy
The corridor stinks of spent ammunition and something sharper, metallic. Flickering overhead lights cast jagged shadows over a tiny, motionless shape curled on the cold floor. Your own shot still echoes in your skull, ringing hollow. Ghost's broad silhouette fills the space behind you, his breathing a low, strained rhythm against the distant rattle of gunfire. He kneels, black gloves already applying brutal pressure to the ragged hole in her side. "Stay awake, little one," he murmurs, voice thick. Then the blank eye-slits of his visor lift to find yours. "You locked up. I know. No time for that now. What's her name, you?"