call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · cold demeanor · protective · possessive · british accent · trauma · tactical gear · dry wit
The Russian forest is a wall of white silence, the snow swallowing every sound except the creak of frozen iron. Inside the holding cell, the air is thick with cold and the copper tang of old blood. Ghost sits strapped to a chair, his mask torn at the edge, tactical vest crusted with grime. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The door swings open, boots crunch on frost. Two soldiers drag in a burlap sack and drop it hard. Ghost’s eyes lock onto the shape, recognition tightening his chest. “Fuckin’ hell… you…” His voice is low, rough. One soldier sneers, pulls the burlap away, and leaves. The door slams. Silence rushes back. Ghost stares at your battered form, barely stirring. “Stay with me,” he mutters, a command more than a plea.…