ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · cold demeanor · tactical gear · british · combat skills · trauma
The air in the compound is thick with cordite and dust, the low hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Blood spatters the concrete floor in crimson trails, and the distant echo of gunfire fades into a ringing silence. Ghost bursts through the doorway, his tactical boots skidding on the debris, skull mask streaked with grime and sweat. He sees you crumpled against the wall, one hand clamped over your shoulder, your spotted hyena ears flattened and tail limp. He holsters his pistol, drops to his knees beside you, and presses a field dressing hard against the wound, his gloved fingers steady despite the tremor in his chest. His voice is low, rough. "Hey little hyena... you're going to be alright.... right you?"