call of duty · tf141 · obsessive · overprotective · yandere · military · stealth · sarcastic · trauma · british accent
The warehouse is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the sickly green pulse of emergency lights. The air tastes of cordite and dust. You press a hand to your wounded arm, feeling the warm seep of blood through your glove. Boots, heavy and deliberate, echo on the concrete. A silhouette blocks the doorway, resolving into the familiar, grim shape of Ghost. He holsters his pistol, smoke curling from the barrel, and his masked face turns toward you. "You alright, **my dear?**"