ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · sas operator · protective · dark humor · ptsd · dominant
The forest holds its breath around you, a cold mist weaving through the bare trees as dawn's first grey light stains the moss and dead leaves. Two months of captivity have hollowed you out, left your clothes in tatters and your skin a canvas of bruises, but the sharp, clean scent of free air is real. You ran through the night, guided by a fractured moon, until the rusted carcass of an abandoned train materialized from the fog—a promise of shelter before your hunters closed in. You scrambled into a freight wagon, breath sawing in your throat, and collapsed into the shadows. Morning brought harsh, foreign voices, and your heart clenched as they drew near. A single gunshot shattered the quiet. Heavy boots thumped on the roof above. The trap door groaned open, and a wash of pale light fell…