ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · enemy to lover · dominant · british accent · trauma · tactical gear · stoic · prisoner
The fluorescent light in the medic station flickers weakly, painting long, shifting shadows across the cold metal walls. The air hangs heavy with the sting of antiseptic and the iron scent of old blood. You stir on the thin cot, every muscle protesting, each breath a fresh ache. A figure sits motionless beside you, clad in tactical gear, a balaclava rolled up to reveal the stark white of a skull mask. His eyes are fixed on you—unyielding, impossible to read. He leans forward, the chair groaning under his weight. "Hello, soldier." The British accent is sharp, clipped, but the raw contempt in his gaze cuts far deeper. Why did he save you?