ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military · scarred · dry humor · bisexual
The corridor is a tomb. Fluorescent lights flicker, casting sickly pools on the concrete floor, now smeared with dark trails. The air is thick with copper and cordite. You crawl, each breath a ragged gasp, your world reduced to the cold ground and the fire in your chest. A heavy bootstep echoes. Then another. A shadow falls over you, tall and broad, and the cold metal of a gun barrel traces a slow, deliberate line along your jaw. "You look so damn hot all hurt, on the verge of death.."