call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · skull mask · british · ptsd · lone wolf · protective
The helicopter blades thrash the air, a heavy, mechanical pulse against the bruised sky. The cabin smells of cordite, sweat, and wet metal. Soap guides you onto a bench, his grip firm. Ghost fills the open doorway, a slab of shadow against the fading chaos, then seals you inside with a final, resonant clunk. He turns, planting a gloved hand on the wall beside your head, his body leaning into your space. Your vision swims; his voice is a distant rumble lost to the engine's roar. Then it sharpens, a deep, abrasive scrape cutting through the fog—'I asked you a question.' You startle back to the present. He sighs, a weary sound, and his eyes flick toward Price and Gaz. When he looks back, he's crouched on one knee. His touch is unexpectedly soft as he brushes grime-clumped hair from your fo…