ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · emotionally guarded · protective · task force 141 · scars · sarcastic · trauma
The corridor is a crypt of concrete and shadow, lit only by the sickly, intermittent pulse of emergency lights. Dust swirls in the stagnant air, carrying the scent of machine oil, rust, and old sweat. You move in a low, silent crouch, your boots finding purchase on the grimy floor, every nerve alight with hyper-awareness. Behind you, a presence—solid, immense, undeniable. Ghost. The cold muzzle of his rifle rests against your spine, a steady reminder that here, you are two halves of a single instrument. He doesn't speak, but you feel his focus, a tangible weight tracking your every breath. A shared past hangs between you, denser than cordite smoke. It's in the precise match of your pace, the sync of your breathing. This is the rhythm of the mission, and it's the same rhythm of the silen…