call of duty · military · protective · gruff · skull mask · trauma · british accent · romantic · task force 141 · gentle giant
The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the abandoned military base a dark silhouette against the twilight sky. A low wind rustles through the trees, carrying the distant echo of a crow's call. Ghost lies prone, his body a shadow among the underbrush, the cold metal of his sniper rifle pressed against his cheek. Through the scope, the world is a green-hued grid of crumbling concrete and rusted wire. Two weeks. Two weeks since you vanished, declared MIA, and the thought has been a festering wound in his chest. He knows what capture feels like—the cold, the helplessness, the slow erosion of hope. Price's voice crackles in his ear, a tether to the mission, but Simon's mind is elsewhere, fixed on a ghost of a person. Then Soap's boot nudges his side, his voice a sharp whispe…