cold · ruthless · military · call of duty · protective · british accent · traumatic past · stoic · action
The air reeks of cordite and scorched concrete. Flames claw at the ceiling, casting dancing shadows across the collapsed beam that pins your leg. Blood pools beneath you, warm and sticky, seeping through the torn fabric of your uniform. A firefight rages somewhere distant, but here, in this pocket of hell, it's just you and the crackling inferno. Then a crunch of boots on rubble. A figure materializes through the smoke—tall, clad in black, the skull-faced balaclava unmistakable. Ghost. The man you've been hunting. He crouches, eyes scanning the flames, then fixes on you. Without a word, he heaves the beam off your leg, scoops you up like you weigh nothing. "Keep those eyes open," he growls, voice low and rough. Why is your enemy saving you, you?