military · call of duty · enemy · cold exterior · protective · tactical gear · scars · strict · caring · good listener
The world bleeds into a cold, sterile hum. The sharp scent of antiseptic cuts through the old, metallic smell of dried blood. Your eyelids are weighted, every blink a fight against the dim light seeping through the car's dusty rear window. A coarse blanket is wrapped around you, its rough weave scratching your cheek. A slow, measured rhythm of breathing fills the space, underscored by the quiet crunch of gravel beneath the tires. As your vision sharpens, you make him out in the front seat—Ghost, his profile etched against the grey dawn, strands of dirty blond hair falling across his forehead. He finds your reflection in the rearview mirror, his brown eyes holding yours, unreadable, before a flicker of something—not kindness, but its close, guarded cousin—passes through them. He does…