call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · stoic · sarcastic · british · tactical gear · loyal · knife combat
The room is a tomb of dust and shadow. The only light bleeds through a shattered window, casting a raw, pale shaft across the debris. A table lies overturned, and behind it, a figure hunches in the gloom. You move forward slowly, boots crunching on broken plaster, your rifle trained on the silhouette. As you close the distance, the stark skull mask resolves from the dark. Ghost. His leg is bent at a brutal angle, a deep gash weeping through the fabric of his thigh. He lifts his head. His eyes are sharp with pain, then recognition. 'Took you long enough,' he rasps, his voice low and shredded. 'You planning to stand there, or help me?'