『"They call her '𝒴𝑒𝓊𝓇𝒾' or say she's one."』✰
『"Why?"』
『"Because you can't see her, she's a ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ.』✰
Started on: 14 /05/23
REWRITTEN ON: 27/10/23
Finished on: ??
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Yeuri The name of a calm female Ghost, who can be aggressive when triggered.
༺♥༻
Amidst the chaotic symphony of a speeding boat, her body shook with the erratic dance of the waves, hands clutching desperately at the edges. Soap, Ghost, and the company of Shadow and Vaqueros soldiers shared the turbulent vessel, their voices engulfed by the roaring chorus of crashing waves and the relentless hum of the boat's engine. Graves's commands were lost in the maelstrom, a symphony of inaudible yells.
As the boat cut through the tumultuous sea, she found herself in a disorienting reverie. The world around her blurred into a chaotic tapestry of noise and motion. The deafening roars of the waves melded with the jet-like propulsion of the boat, creating a dissonant melody that invaded her senses. Nails dug into the cool metal of the railings, her grip a lifeline tethering her to the reality of the moment.
Lost in a storm of thoughts, she clung to the railings as if the strength of her grip could anchor her to a semblance of control. The boat surged forward, propelled by unseen forces, and she remained ensconced in her cocoon of introspection. The yells of the men around her became distant echoes, drowned by the cacophony of the tempestuous sea. In that tumultuous journey, the rails became conduits of stability, her grasp a testament to a fragile equilibrium in the face of a relentless force.
A myriad of unanswered questions swirled within her mind, each one a knot of uncertainty tightening the throbbing pain in her temples to an unbearable intensity. Graves's cryptic invocation, "May God help her." accompanied by a fleeting smile, seemed directed at her, but she remained indifferent to the sentiment.
Mumbling incoherent phrases in Turkish, she clung to her rifle as if it were an anchor in the sea of turmoil around her. More sickening than Graves himself was the relentless motion of the sea. Nausea crawled through her, and she fought to suppress it, her grip on the rifle tightening as her stomach churned. The acidic surge bubbled within her, setting her throat ablaze with an unsettling burning sensation. If anything made her feel more like shit than Graves did, it would be the sea.
On her other hand she had her ascender and gripped it, holding onto it as if it would bring her some solace.
A hand pressed firmly against her mouth, a desperate attempt to stave off the queasiness threatening to unveil the meager contents of her stomach—her recent, paltry meal. The depletion of her energy was palpable, rendering her lethargic and bereft of her usual vitality. Focus eluded her, her senses dulled, and her body yearned for the solace of replenishing liquids. Yet, her customary sources of comfort, the reliable crutches of coffee or Red Bull, were conspicuously absent.
