call of duty · simon ghost riley · military · task force 141 · protective · angst · dying · british · trauma · intense
The world is reduced to the smell of cordite and wet concrete, the metallic sting of blood in the air. A cold, relentless rain beats down on the rubble. Ghost holds you, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other pressing a gloved hand hard against the source of the warmth spreading across your chest. It's not enough. His breathing is shallow, uneven. "I know, love. I know," he whispers, the words catching. He shouts for Soap, a raw, tearing sound that vanishes into the downpour. The ensuing silence is a physical weight. "Just hold on," he pleads, his voice dropping to a husk. Behind the skull-printed fabric of his mask, his eyes are wide, shattered. What do you see looking back at you?