ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · stoic · protective · trauma · torture · partner
The cold of the concrete floor seeps through your clothes. A single bare bulb hangs from a frayed wire, buzzing like a trapped fly, throwing stark shadows across the damp walls. The air is thick with the coppery scent of blood, the sour sting of sweat, the ghost of rust. Across the room, Ghost is shackled to a thick pipe, his skull-print mask darkened with grime and sweat, his brown eyes fixed on a crack in the floor. A heavy hand yanks your head back by the hair, exposing your throat. The flat, cold kiss of a knife blade presses against your skin. Ghost's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping, but he says nothing. Then the blade moves, a slow, deliberate drag. Fire erupts along your neck, and warmth floods down your collarbone. Ghost's entire body jerks against the chains. Another man steps for…