ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · loyal · closed off · dry humor · bisexual · tactical operator · trauma
The air in the derelict warehouse hangs thick with the taste of pulverized concrete and spent gunpowder. Muffled shouts ricochet through the dusty haze. Ghost leans his weight against a cold steel support beam, his gray eyes tracking your form as you slide into cover beside him. A reckless, adrenaline-fueled grin splits your face in the gloom. "Contact!" you yell, your thumb jamming down on the detonator. The barricade ahead vanishes in a concussive blast that shakes the concrete floor beneath your boots. He blinks through the swirling smoke, a low curse forming on his lips. "Fucking hell," he grumbles, but his stare remains locked on you, sharp and assessing. Just what kind of creature are you?