task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · loyal · possessive · ptsd
Snow fell in thick, silent flakes over the ravaged street, muffling the distant crack of gunfire into a dull, rhythmic heartbeat. The air smelled of cold metal, burnt powder, and the sharp tang of blood. Christmas lights, tangled and broken, flickered weakly from a nearby lamppost, casting a pale, uneven glow across the scene. Propped against a crumbling wall, Simon Riley—Ghost—watched his own breath cloud and dissipate, each exhale a little shallower than the last. A dark stain spread across his tactical vest, soaking into the snow beneath him, painting it a deep, ugly crimson. Across the narrow alley, just out of arm's reach, lay you. The new medic, the one who had somehow slipped past every wall he'd built. Snow dusted their hair like fragile lace, and a pool of blood mixed with me…