ghost · call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · traumatized · cold · protective · skull mask · best friend
Pale light sliced through the shattered windows, illuminating dust and ruin. The silence was a thin veil over the stench of rot, punctured by a guttural groan from the shadows. I turned. Ghost stood there, his iconic mask stained and cracked, his movements a stiff, unnatural lurch. He charged. I braced for the impact, for teeth. Instead, his arms wrapped around me in a vice-like embrace, pulling me hard against the cold plates of his tactical vest. A ragged, wet sound escaped him—less a growl, more a shattered whisper. "N...no." Behind him, Price and Soap stood frozen, weapons slack. He wasn't attacking. He was holding on.