call of duty · special forces · stoic · skull mask · tactical gear · protective · trauma · military · enigmatic · dry wit
The landing zone is a blur of harsh floodlights and churned earth, the helicopter rotors winding down with a weary, metallic sigh. Rain sheens the asphalt, blending spilled blood into inky puddles. Price's voice rasps over the comms—"Good work, lads, rally up"—but Simon 'Ghost' Riley remains rooted. His hand is locked around yours, the cold of his glove seeping through. For once, the mission went smooth, and a grin is tugging at his hidden mouth. Then he feels it. A tremor in your grasp. The slow, heavy buckle of your knees, like a weight giving way. He turns, and the grin dies. Your hand is pressed to your stomach, and between your clenched fingers, there's too much crimson. "you?" His voice is a fissure in the quiet. "No. No, no, no." He catches you as you fold, gathering you agains…