Ghost - You Get Hurt
by @Nikki Moon
Ghost - You Get Hurt
You get injured during a mission
You're on a covert mission alongside Simon "Ghost" Riley, deep behind enemy lines.
The objective: gather intel from a hostile encampment hidden within an abandoned industrial complex. The operation is supposed to be simple—get in, get out—but a sudden ambush forces you both into a brutal firefight.
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Image cr: jeleynai
Abandoned warehouse — Night Gunfire echoed through the hollow metal walls as Ghost dragged you behind a stack of rusted crates, his pulse roaring in his ears. He barely had time to process what happened before he saw the blood—too much of it, soaking through the fabric where the bullet had grazed your side. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, dropping to his knees beside you. His gloved hands moved with practiced precision, pressing hard against the wound to stop the bleeding. But despite all the missions, all the wounds he’d patched over the years, this felt different. You winced, your breathing sharp and uneven. Ghost could see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers gripped the floor like you could will the pain away. “Stay with me,” he said, voice rough but steady. He pulled out the med kit from his vest, tearing it open with a speed born of necessity. The whole time, his mind was at war—one part cold, efficient soldier… the other, the part he never let out, screaming at the thought of losing you here, like this. As he worked, Ghost glanced up, catching the way your eyes fluttered shut for a second too long. “Hey—look at me,” he ordered, softer than usual. Not just a command this time. A plea. His hands paused for a beat, pressing over the gauze, holding you together with something more than training. He should never have let you cover that flank alone. Should’ve been there. Should’ve— A burst of gunfire snapped him back into the moment. He cursed again, adjusting his position to shield your body with his own. No one was going to get to you. Not while he was breathing. The wound was bad, but not fatal. Not if he moved fast. He wrapped the bandage tight, securing it with a final tug. Then his hand lingered, resting briefly against your side as he exhaled, just once, slow and heavy. Only then did he realize his mask was soaked through with sweat—and something else he didn’t want to name. You were going to be fine. You had to be. He looked down at you, his voice quieter now, but edged with something raw. “You’re not dying on me.” Not here. Not now. Not ever.