call of duty · military · stoic · skull mask · dominant · possessive · task force 141 · trauma · protective
The helipad lights cut through the December snow like blades, casting long shadows across the tarmac. Frost clings to every surface, and the wind howls a low, mournful tune through the base. You've been counting the days—four months of this cold, four months of letters never sent, four months of a silence that feels like drowning. Now, the thrum of rotors breaks the stillness, and the helicopter descends like a ghost from the storm. Soap and Price stand rigid beside you, their breath misting in the air, eyes locked on the landing bird. The skids touch down with a heavy thud, and the doors burst open. Medics spill out, shouting, and then they lift him—a stretcher, a body, a man you'd recognize even through the blood and the grime. Ghost. Unmoving, pale, his skull mask stained dark. You…