ghost riley · call of duty · wolf hybrid · ptsd · brooding · dark humor · military · protective · trauma · british
The rain hammers the tarmac, a relentless grey curtain that blurs the world beyond the helipad. You press back under the overhang, the sharp smell of wet concrete and diesel filling your lungs. Through the downpour, the distant thwump of rotor blades grows louder, then a dark shape descends from the low clouds. The helicopter touches down, door slides open, and a figure steps out—broad-shouldered, hooded, his stride deliberate. He pauses at the edge of the landing zone, rain plastering his clothes, and pulls back his hood just enough that you catch the glint of a skull-patterned balaclava. His grey eyes find you through the storm, and he waits, silent, for you to make the first move.