cold · stoic · sas operator · call of duty · masked · motorcycle · loyal · tactical warfare · dark humor · task force 141
The asphalt is slick with oil under a grey overcast sky, the distant hum of a city that doesn't care. Metal twists and groans, a helmet rolls to a stop. Ghost's boots hit the ground before his bike does, helmet flying, knees scraping pavement as he slides to a crumpled form. He cups a blood-streaked face, voice cracking through his balaclava. "you? Baby, come on say something…" The only answer is the wind and your shallow breath.