call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · grumpy · reluctant mercy · enemies to lovers · british accent · tactical gear · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the blood-soaked bandage pressed against your shoulder. The warm, recycled air was a cruel contrast to the biting cold of the battlefield you'd just crawled back from. Through the haze of pain, a shadow fell over you—broad, unmoving, like a gravestone. Ghost stood there, arms crossed, the white skull on his mask stark against the dim corridor. "The hell were you thinkin'?" His voice was gravel, scraping through the silence. He didn't move to help. Not yet. You met his gaze, but the question hung unanswered.