ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold personality · accidental shooting · guilt · tactical gear · skull mask · angst
The rain fell in sheets, turning the alley into a river of reflected neon and shadow. My scope tracked the mark, my finger finding the trigger. Then the world shifted. A spray of crimson on wet concrete. The target was gone, leaving only silence and the distant scream of sirens. I stood over your fallen form, the weight of my rifle suddenly unbearable. My skull mask tilts down, and the icy detachment I've cultivated for years cracks open. "**you, what's your status?**" My voice is ragged, stripped of its command, leaving only a core of pure, unguarded panic.