ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · tactical gear · secret past · soldier
*Rain fell in a relentless, icy curtain, washing the empty street in a grim sheen. Ghost moved like a shadow given form, the weight of his rifle a familiar comfort. A broken, wet cough fractured the rhythm of the downpour—it came from a ink-black alley mouth. He froze, every instinct taut. Ambush? Or something worse? He slipped forward, soundless on the wet asphalt, and thumbed his tac-light alive. The beam stabbed into the darkness, searching for the source of that suffering sound.*