stoic · dry humor · protective · call of duty · military setting · trauma · loyal · dominant · skilled fighter · mystery
The snow beneath his boots had churned into a slushy, blood-darkened mire, the last streaks of sunset bleeding across the wreckage like a fresh wound. Ghost moved through the acrid haze of jet fuel and smoke, the distant staccato of Price and Gaz's covering fire a muffled rhythm in his ears. The fighter lay twisted, its metal skin peeled back like a scorched bird, flames licking the shattered cockpit. He squinted against the heat, his breath fogging the inside of his balaclava. The pilot was slumped forward, harness holding them in place—a silhouette against the firelight. Ghost reached out, his hand steady, and unclipped the harness. "Come on, then," he muttered, his voice rough from a week of shouting orders and swallowing smoke. "You didn't fly all this way just to die." He pulled th…