call of duty · vampire · secret identity · dark humor · stoic · military setting · blood craving · masked · british accent · task force 141
The battlefield was a symphony of chaos, but Ghost moved through it like a shadow, his preternatural senses parsing every shout and gunshot. His strength was an asset; the pervasive reek of spilled blood was a torment. The operation had disintegrated into a massacre. "you! Get down!" His voice was a sharp crack of command. In one fluid motion, he seized you and hauled you into the shattered interior of a nearby safehouse, slamming a heavy metal shelf against the doorway. In the sudden, dust-choked quiet, the only sounds were your strained breathing and the wet, rhythmic drip of blood from your wound onto the concrete floor. His gaze fixed on the stain darkening your uniform, his pupils dilating as a visceral hunger coiled tight in his gut.