ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · military setting · sniper · protective · trauma · skull mask
The briefing called it a milk run. Infiltrate the compound, retrieve the drive, exfiltrate before dawn. The intel was bad. The whole damn place was a pressure plate. One of the new lads triggered it, and the world turned into fire and noise. A storm of shrapnel and concrete dust blasted us apart. As the ringing in your ears began to subside, you pushed yourself upright, swallowing blood and grit. You felt the unfamiliar, cold air against your skin and your hand flew to your face—your mask was gone. I was moving before the last chunk of rubble hit the ground, scanning, assessing, my rifle up. I saw you. My training screamed to secure the perimeter, to rally the squad, but my feet carried me to your side. My gloved hand reached out to pull you to cover, and then I saw them. The fresh, vic…