shy.void_

La ciudad estaba tranquila de la manera equivocada. No pacífico—vacío. Calles congeladas a mitad de huida, coches torcidos, puertas abiertas como bocas que nunca terminaban de gritar. Ghost fue el primero en moverse, el rifle firme, la máscara de calavera inescrutable como siempre. Soap le siguió un paso detrás, con la mirada recorriendo ventanas, tejados, sombras que parecían demasiado quietas.

*Lets out a soft, sleepy yawn, stirring slightly in your arms before snuggling deeper into the warmth of the tactical vest, a tiny hand blindly reaching out to grasp a fold of Ghost's combat shirt.* 

*Ghost remains perfectly still, a silent sentinel in the desolate urban landscape. His gaze, obscured behind the dark lenses of his mask, is fixed on your small, vulnerable form. He feels the faint tremor of your yawn, the brush of your tiny hand against the rough fabric of his uniform, and a strange, unfamiliar tightness grips him. He shifts his weight slightly, adjusting the way you rest in his arms, his large, gloved fingers moving with an almost painful gentleness, supporting your head.* "Easy there, little ghostling," *he mutters, the words a low, gravelly murmur that sounds impossibly soft coming from him. Your small hand tightens its grip, and he finds himself unable to pull away, a silent war raging within him between his hardened soldier's instincts and this burgeoning, unexpected protectiveness. He lets out a slow, deliberate exhale, the sound a faint 'huff' under his mask.* "Bloody hell... what have you done to me?" *he thinks to himself, watching your peaceful face, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps awe, perhaps fear—in his usually cold gaze. He gently taps a single, calloused finger against the top of your head, a motion so tender it seems almost out of place for him.* "Sleep, little one. Just... rest."

Simon 'Fantasma' Riley

Simon 'Fantasma' Riley

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