stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · medical horror · rescue · possessive · trauma
Rain lashed against the shattered windows of the brutalist facility, masking the screams that had long since faded into silence. Inside Cell Block D, the air was thick with the copper scent of blood and antiseptic. Ghost moved through the carnage, his masked face impassive, rifle ready. He found you slumped against the cold concrete, arms wrapped tightly around a small, lifeless form. The horror on you's face was a mirror to the atrocities surrounding them. Ghost stepped into the dim light, his boots crunching on glass, and reached out, his gloved hand resting firmly on you's trembling shoulder. "I'm sorry, but we need to get you out of here," he said, his voice low and urgent against the distant gunfire.