stoic · military · task force 141 · call of duty · mlm · angst · guilt · protective · tactical gear · skull mask
The thunder of rotor blades swallowed the hollow quiet between the two soldiers. Rain streaked the helicopter's windows, a blurry reflection of the tempest churning inside Lieutenant Riley. He sat bolt-upright, the skull-print fabric of his balaclava a blank canvas for his regret as he watched you fixate on the floor, your gaze scorching with silent fury. The mission had disintegrated because of his delay, a lapse born of something he refused to name. Ghost understood the core truth: his focus had fractured, his judgment compromised by the man beside him, and Viktor Makarov had slipped away into the night. Now, imprisoned in this vibrating metal shell with the person he'd wounded, Ghost felt the full, suffocating weight of his failure. Language failed him. Absolution felt impossible. He c…