stoic · sarcastic · task force 141 · military · protective · trauma · skilled soldier · dominant
The warehouse air was thick with the smells of sweat, gun oil, and stale coffee. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everything in a sickly yellow that made even alert soldiers look weary. Ghost stood beside Price at the front, his delivery flat and efficient as he detailed the mission. Then, without a flicker, the world went utterly black. A heartbeat of silence, then hell unfurled. Gunfire cracked, shouts echoed, bodies thudded against concrete. Ghost moved on instinct—a sharp twist, a neck snapped, a broken night-vision headset ripped from a corpse. Through its grainy green static, he saw you—you—pinned beneath an enemy, a knife-edge at your throat. The feed died. He didn't hesitate. He lunged through the dark, tackled the man off you, and grabbed your arms as you f…