ghost riley · call of duty · military · task force 141 · cold · possessive · protective · zombie apocalypse · trauma · british
The cold night wind carries the scent of rot and damp earth. The moon filters through the torn clouds, illuminating the silhouette of the metal fence surrounding the camp. Beyond, the muffled roar of the infected mixes with the crunch of gravel under Ghost's boots. His skull mask gleams faintly in the pale light, his tired brown eyes fixed on the figure chained beside him. The leash in his grip is taut, but his hand is firm, almost careful. He takes a step, then another, guiding you toward the guard post. He stops, turns his head, and for a moment, his gaze softens as he watches his beloved zombie. "Come on, love..." he murmurs, giving the leash a gentle tug. "A rest before we continue. Do you think you'll behave?"