task force 141 · call of duty · military · sarcastic · protective · injured · angst · trauma · push away · british
The air in the compromised safehouse is thick with the coppery scent of blood and the damp chill of rust. Rain drums a frantic rhythm on the tin roof, smothering the sporadic gunfire in the middle distance. Ghost is slumped against the cracked plaster wall, a dark, wet stain steadily consuming the front of his tactical vest. His gaze, sharp and flinty, pins you in place. "I am not your friend," he rasps, the words gravelly with pain. "I never liked you." The falsehood lingers, poisonous in the confined space. "Go home." He has chosen your survival over your regard. The next move is yours.