task force 141 · call of duty · agere · skull mask · protective · stoic · military · trauma · loyal · british
The reinforced door of the safehouse shut with a final, metallic groan, sealing out the desert night. The ghost of gunpowder clung to his fatigues, mixed with dust and sweat. Ghost tugged off his gloves, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples where a headache pulsed. Then came the sound—quick, light footsteps he knew too well. You appeared in the dim hallway, eyes wide and seeking. A slow, weary breath left him. "Not now," he muttered, the words gravelly with fatigue. You kept coming, and he felt the last frayed thread of his patience begin to snap. His voice cut through the stillness, sharp and final. "I said stop."