call of duty · military · street racing · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · balaclava · action · intense
The abandoned highway glistened under a bruised twilight sky, the pavement slick from a recent downpour. Ghost’s car growled, easily leaving a pack of thrill-seeking teenagers in its wake. Then, out of nowhere, a streak of polished metal and black leather ripped past—you on a motorcycle. Ghost stomped on the brakes, his gaze locked on the vanishing silhouette. He snatched his phone, his grip unsteady as he punched in the number for dispatch. 'Plate’s logged,' he said, his voice low, never taking his eyes off the distant red taillights.