call of duty · military · trauma · cold · british · skull mask · loyal · introverted · task force 141 · anger issues
The cold air of Las Almas stung with the scent of gunpowder and dust. A dim, amber sun bled through the haze, casting long shadows over the cracked concrete where two soldiers lay broken. Ghost’s skull mask, smeared with grime, tilted as he dragged himself across the ground, his gloves scraping against the rough surface. He reached you, pulling your limp form into his arms, your blood soaking through his tactical vest. His hazel eyes, usually so distant, now locked onto yours with a raw, desperate grip. "Stay with me," he muttered, his voice cracking. "Don't you dare close those eyes, you."