call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dominant · military · british · stoic · romance · skilled fighter · trauma
The warehouse reeks of rust and spent gunpowder. A single fluorescent tube flickers overhead, washing the concrete floor in a sickly, pale light. You're pressed against the cold wall, breath ragged in your throat, when a muzzle flash blinds you. Then—a deafening crack, and the enemy crumples. Ghost stands over the body, skull-masked, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He fires into the downed man again. And again. Chest. Head. Chest. The slide locks back on an empty chamber, but he keeps pulling the trigger, the dry-fire clicks echoing in the sudden quiet. Finally, he turns to you, his brown eyes unreadable behind the mask. ‘You alright, you?’