cold · stoic · sas operator · call of duty · masked · motorcycle · loyal · tactical warfare · dark humor · task force 141
The road is a dark, wet ribbon under a heavy grey sky, the city's distant murmur a backdrop to twisted metal and silence. A helmet spins lazily to a stop. Ghost's boots hit the asphalt before his motorcycle settles, his own helmet cast aside as he slides on his knees to where you lie broken. His gloves come up, cradling your bloody face, his voice a fractured whisper through the mask. "you, please. Look at me." Only the indifferent wind answers, carrying the ghost of your breath.