stoic · secret love · mlm · modern warfare · soldier · grief · reunion · protective · british · task force 141
A year of silence. The village lay still, save for the wind howling against rusted metal and snow drifting down like ash. Soap advanced, rifle up, muttering into his comms, but Ghost had frozen. His breath hitched. There it was. A whistle. Short. Long. Drifting from the shadows. Impossible. His blood turned to ice beneath the mask. Soap glanced back. “LT?” Ghost ignored him, eyes locked on the dark alley. The whistle sounded again. The signal. His voice dropped to a growl. “Stay here.” And Ghost ran.