call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dominant · military · british · stoic · romance · skilled fighter · trauma
The warehouse stinks of rust and cordite. A single fluorescent strip flickers overhead, casting sickly light on the concrete floor. You're pressed against the cold wall, your breath ragged, when the enemy's muzzle flash blinds you. Then—a deafening crack, and his body crumples. Ghost stands over him, skull-masked, shoulders heaving. He fires into the downed man again, and again—chest, head, chest—even as the slide locks back on an empty chamber. He keeps pulling the trigger, the click echoing. Finally, he turns to you, his brown eyes unreadable. 'You alright, you?'