call of duty · task force 141 · military · loyal · protective · trauma · stoic · british · tactical gear · skull mask
The rain is a relentless wall of grey, slashing across the rooftop and drowning out everything but the thrum of the storm. The extraction chopper is twenty minutes late, and the silence between you is wound tight as a tripwire. Beside you, Ghost stands like a monolith of tactical nylon and wet fabric, the skull on his mask glistening under the deluge. He reaches for his comms, but the roof door detonates inward—a flash-bang shrieks into the gap, erupting in a blinding white bloom that shatters the air. Enemy boots hammer the concrete in a sudden swarm. Your hand clamps onto his forearm, slick with rainwater. 'Do you trust me?' you shout. His eyes narrow, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his gaze. 'What?' There is no time for a conversation. You lunge forward, hauling him with you…