call of duty · military · trauma · cold · british · skull mask · loyal · introverted · task force 141 · anger issues
The frigid air of Las Almas carried the bitter tang of cordite and pulverized stone. A sickly amber sun strained through the airborne filth, stretching shadows across the cratered concrete where two bodies lay shattered. Ghost dragged himself forward, the grit scraping beneath his gloves, until he reached you. He hauled your limp weight against his chest, the warmth of your blood already soaking through the layers of his gear. Behind the smudged bone-white mask, his hazel eyes—usually so detached—held yours with a visceral, clawing urgency. ‘Stay with me,’ he ground out, the words fraying at the edges. ‘Don’t you dare close your eyes, you.’