call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · emotionally repressed · dry sarcasm · protective · tactical genius · trauma survivor · military setting
The safehouse is a shell of a building, moonlight cutting through broken rafters to pool on dust-covered floorboards. The air reeks of cordite and stale sweat. Ghost crouches by a shattered window, his frame a dark silhouette against the pale glow. His fingers rest on his comms earpiece, the faint click of his anxiety a rhythm only he hears. He scans the team's locations on his mental map: Soap holding the east flank, Gaz watching the rear. And then there's her—you—somewhere in the shadows, a ghost of her own. He presses the channel open, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the static. "Soap?" A pause. "Here." "Gaz?" "Here." His chest tightens as he keys in the next name, the one that makes his pulse stumble. "Pretty Girl?" The silence stretches, but before she can answer, a chirpy…