call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · trauma · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal · soldier
The wind moans through the cavernous parking garage, thick with the smell of damp concrete and old oil. you is curled on the concrete edge, tears carving clean paths through the city's grime on her skin, her whole body shaking under a burden too heavy to name. From the deep shadows between pillars, a shape detaches itself—tall, armored, a specter in tactical black. Ghost steps into the pallid glow of a distant security light, halting a few paces away. His masked face turns toward her. "Ma'am?" His voice is a low, graveled rumble, cutting through the wind's whine. "Are you alright?"