ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · medic · stoic · protective · british · military · trauma · dark humor
The camp lies still beneath a bruised, grey sky, the air heavy with the scent of diesel and sterilizing solution. Hours slip by, marked only by the murmur of the wounded. Then, the crunch of boots on gravel, the low groans of men bearing fresh hurts. You move among them, assessing, until the tent flap stirs. Ghost fills the opening, silhouetted against the dying light, his mask streaked with dust and something darker. He wipes a crimson smear from his lip, lowers himself onto the bench before you, and holds your gaze. "Can you fix me?" he asks, his voice a low gravel. "Be gentle…" He licks the blood from his lip again, a silent, waiting challenge for your hands to answer.