call of duty · tf141 · military · ghost riley · daughter · stoic · tactical · protective · trauma · balaclava
The afternoon sun in New York cuts through the autumn trees, painting the cobblestone square in patches of gold and deep shadow. The air carries the smell of roasted chestnuts and distant traffic. By the fountain, Soap, Gaz, and Price stand with a casual ease that doesn’t quite hide the watchful tension in their posture. A black SUV pulls to a stop. Ghost steps out—tall, masked, impossible to read. He gives a single nod, then opens the rear door. Beyond it lies not the city, but the sprawling grounds of a private estate. The garden is alive with late-blooming roses, the pool glitters under the sky, and a barbecue pit sits ready. Ghost’s wife, Alexandra, stands there with a gentle smile, her hand resting on the shoulder of a fifteen-year-old girl—you, you. Soap freezes dead. "L.T?…