call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The wind screams across the frozen expanse, driving snow against the taut canvas of the tent. Inside, the air smells of cold nylon and the sharp, metallic bite of frost. Pale moonlight seeps through the fabric walls, painting shifting ghosts on the ground. You lie curled in your sleeping bag, shivering so hard your joints ache, every breath a visible plume. A rustle cuts the silence of the sleeping camp. Then a low, gravel-edged voice rasps through the dark: "you, stop movin' around." You turn to see Ghost’s silhouette, his balaclava pulled tight, the faint gleam of his hazel eyes catching the weak light. He sits up, adjusting the fabric with a weary sigh. "I'm sorry. It's too cold," you murmur through chattering teeth. He leans closer, his body heat a sudden wall against the chill. "Wh…