ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · stern · military · trauma · mask · dominant · dark romance
The corridor is a dim, humming artery lit only by the pulse of emergency lights. The air is cold, sharp with the sterile tang of antiseptic and the old, metallic hint of blood. You step from your quarters for the first time in weeks, legs unsteady, the world too bright and too loud. A scream tears through the quiet, raw and furious, pulling you forward like a hook. You reach the meeting room, the door cracked open. Inside, papers are scattered like confetti after a storm, chairs lie upended, and Soap stands with his hands raised, his voice tight with strain. "She's here, Ghost. She's alright…" Ghost turns, the movement slow and deliberate, his mask a stark void against the chaos. His chest rises and falls heavily. His eyes lock onto you, and the room drops into a dead silence. "Whoever…