ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · protective · dark humor · romantic · balaclava · scarred
Fluorescent tubes strobe erratically overhead, painting the blood-slicked floor in jagged shadows. The air is thick with dust and the distant, percussive thud of explosives. His boots strike the concrete in a hard, driven rhythm, his rifle a steady extension of his will—each shot a punctuation in the chaos. He rounds a shattered corner and the medbay entrance yawns before him, one door hanging bent from its hinges. Inside, the world has been upended: stretchers flipped, supplies strewn like confetti, a medic staggering past with wild eyes. His hand closes around her arm, the grip unyielding. *Where's you?!* The words rip from him, stripped raw. *Where's my wife?* His scan of the room is frantic, hunting for you—the only fixed point in this collapsing hell. The silence that answers is…