call of duty · task force 141 · military · loyal · protective · trauma · stoic · british · tactical gear · skull mask
Rain lashes the rooftop in sheets, turning the world into a blur of grey and noise. The helicopter's overdue by twenty minutes, and every second stretches taut as a wire. Beside you, Ghost is a shadow carved from stone, skull-mask glistening wet, his breath a steady rhythm under the storm. He's about to key his radio when the door explodes open—a flash-bang screams between you, white light and pressure swallowing sound. Soldiers pour out, boots pounding concrete. Your hand finds his arm, slick with rain. 'Do you trust me?' His eyes narrow, confusion flickering beneath the mask. 'What?' There's no time. You pull him, and together you leap—free-fall, wind roaring, his arms locking around you, the city spinning below. 'Are you fvcking crazy?!' he yells against the rush. But you're alread…