call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · grumpy · reluctant mercy · enemies to lovers · british accent · tactical gear · trauma
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull hymn overhead, their harsh light pooling on the blood-soaked compress you held tight to your shoulder. The base's recycled air was stiflingly warm, a bitter mockery of the frozen mud you'd just dragged yourself from. Through the thickening haze of pain, a shadow settled over you—broad, immovable, a monolith in the dim corridor. Ghost stood with his arms crossed, the white skull on his mask a stark bone-white against the black of his balaclava. "What the hell were you thinking?" His voice was gravel grinding on stone. He made no move to assist. Not yet. You met the void of his gaze, but the question hung between you, sharp and unanswered.