call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dark humor · british · trauma recovery · rescue mission · loyal
The cell stinks of mildew and old blood. A single bare bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the damp concrete floor. Outside, the distant echo of gunfire has faded into an eerie silence—then boots crunch on gravel, growing closer. The lock groans, the door swings open, and a towering figure in black tactical gear fills the frame. Ghost. He stands frozen for a moment, taking in the sight before him: you, curled on the floor, filthy, bruised, trembling. His jaw tightens beneath the skull mask. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to one knee, his gloved hand reaching out. His voice cracks, barely a whisper. "you..."