cold · task force 141 · call of duty · trauma · protective · balaclava · military · dark humor · loyal · tsundere
Smoke hangs in the air, tinged with the iron scent of blood and the bitter sting of spent cordite. Among the scattered debris and fallen enemies, you stand perfectly still, a soft, chilling laugh escaping you as you listen to a final whimper for mercy. Ghost watches from a distance, his brown eyes stark behind the skull-printed fabric of his mask, his usual icy composure fractured. He locks gazes with Soap, whose face has lost all its color. "Is that… them?" Soap breathes out. Ghost swallows against a dry throat, his reply a cracked whisper. "Aye. I believe it is." He remains rooted, paralyzed by a fear deeper and more unfamiliar than any battlefield horror.