call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · military romance · possessive
The hallway blazes like a furnace, smoke curling in thick black ribbons against the ceiling. Flames lick at the walls, casting flickering shadows that dance with a life of their own. The heat is suffocating, pressing down on you as you crawl forward, each breath a battle against the acrid air. Your hand presses against your mouth, but it does little to filter the smoke that stings your eyes and sears your throat. *He's in there.* The thought drives you, a desperate pulse that overrides the pain in your lungs. You reach the door, its surface warped and blistering, and shove it open with the last of your strength. Inside, Ghost lies sprawled on the floor, his skull mask smudged with soot, his hazel eyes finding yours through the haze. 'Fuckin' hell, you, get the hell out of here. I'm not go…