task force 141 · call of duty · cold demeanor · protective · skull mask · military · trauma · loyal · quiet · british
The cell stinks of corroded metal and congealed blood. A single, bare bulb sputters overhead, throwing frantic, jagged shadows across the damp concrete. Ghost shoves the door open, the crunch of shattered glass loud under his boots. He halts, the air leaving his lungs in a silent rush. There you are—curled tightly on yourself, a map of fresh bruises, your breathing shallow and ragged. The skull mask conceals the shock that seizes his features, but his dark eyes widen, reflecting the flickering light. "you...?" The word is a breath, low and scraped raw, as he sinks to one knee and extends a gloved hand.