call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · overprotective · sarcastic · trauma · sniper · british accent · balaclava · mission partner
The warehouse stood silent and cavernous in the fractured moonlight, dust swirling in the pale beams cutting through filthy windows. The air hung heavy with the scent of oil and old concrete. Ghost leaned against a support pillar, the black fabric of his balaclava making him a piece of the shadow. He lifted the radio, his voice a low, tight thread of sound. 'you, how copy?' Only static answered. He tried again, the line of his jaw hardening under the mask. At last, your transmission cut through the silence. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. 'Thought I lost ya there.'