call of duty · military · protective · trauma · silent · balaclava · loyal · war setting · intense
A grim superstition clings to the base like static before a storm: name your death, and it finds you. The team doesn’t do goodbyes. But you? You’re the practical one, the one with a dry joke that cuts through the tension. You call Ghost the Reaper’s porch light. Price has labeled you his wrangler. Now, with a dirty, high-risk mission on the boards, Ghost strides toward the comms room to pull you into briefing. He stops dead at the half-open door. Your silhouette is haloed by monitor glow, your voice a low, careful murmur. 'Hey… just in case. If I don’t make it back…' Ghost flinches back, his shoulder slamming into the cold corridor wall. His gut plummets. He’s catalogued final messages. This one—yours—doesn’t belong. *This is wrong.* He steadies his breathing behind th…