Shinigami | COD Ghost x Reader

Chapter 6

The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the stark empty hallway.

She could hear Soap's voice muffled behind the barrier, but the words slipped away, lost in the tumult of her thoughts.

The space around her felt colder, transforming from a simple room adorned with bare necessities into a prison of her own making.

"It's annoying," she had spat at him, venom lacing her tone, though she regretted it almost instantly. Closing her eyes, she could almost see him standing there, hands raised in mock surrender, hair tousled and eyes sparkling with genuine goodwill.

Soap has been nothing but be kind to her, a beacon of hope, a flicker of warmth in the coldness she'd constructed around herself. But Shinigami knew all too well that warmth could attract destruction.

Why did he have to be so... kind?

The mere thought clawed at her, as though it were a treacherous vine woven through her insides. She gritted her teeth, cursing the helpless fragility that followed her like a shadow.

"Get a grip, (Y/N)," she muttered to herself, as she slides down against the door, she felt the chill of metal seep into her bones as she wrapped her arms around her knees.

The stoic soldier side of her had always prided herself on infallible resolve, on being a fortress against the pains of the past, but the truth was painfully stark: she was terrified. The names of those she'd lost haunted her every thought, and her instinct to isolate could not be brushed aside as mere self-preservation; it was a mantra.

While her mind was trapped in spiraling chaos, her heart yearned for an anchor—a friend, maybe just one. But how could she allow someone to slip through the cracks of her defenses when she knew what the cost could be?

The memories flashed before her; flashes of smiling faces, laughter that rang like chimes before turning to horror, to screams of desperate people clawing for life—but all she could do was watch as shadows consumed them.

Each ghost was a reminder of her burdens, of the lives that had slipped from her grasp when she had dared to care.

She let out a breath, tension escaping her like steam from a kettle. Once again, she found herself at the crossroads of isolation and longing.

After what felt like an eternity, Shinigami muscled herself to her feet, a soldier buoyed by duty.

She pushed through the emotional mire and took inventory of her surroundings. The sterile walls of her room felt confining, suffocating even. The room was bare; just one cot, a small desk and a chair, a small bathroom, and a window blocked by darkened blinds.

It looked like a prison cell meant to house those too broken to serve, but she reminded herself it was merely a temporary haven.

She turned her attention to her duffel bag, its canvas unyielding against the flood of her mind. She bent down to grab it then bring it to the bed. Setting it atop of it.

As she began to unpack, she could feel the storm within her receding, replaced by a sense of purpose. Each item pulled from her bag was a small act of reclaiming her space. All while she moves with mechanical efficiency.

An intricately designed dagger, a journal filled with hard-won lessons from the battlefield, and a photo: a fleeting glimpse of her former life that she dared not linger on.

Time slipped by like sand through her fingers, leaving behind only a faint memory of its passage.

She found herself resting her elbows on the desk, her fingers trembling over a polished knife—a glimmering artifact of the day that had now turned surreal. The blade gleamed under the dim light, a mirror reflecting her wandering thoughts, while her mind drifted like a ship lost at sea.

As she played mindlessly with the knife, the world around her faded, until the blade's sharp tip severed the veil of her reverie, cutting through her skin like a reminder of the present.

She blinked back to reality, staring down in silence as blood trickled from her finger, a vivid crimson line threading through her distractions.

With a resigned sigh, she pocketed the knife, its glint replaced by the weight of reality, and rose from her chair.

Ignoring the small injury—the price of her daydreams—she stepped into the world outside her room, seeking Price and wanting to ask about the soldier's file to begin to work.

Distraction is her best armor, a shield against the shadows of her past, ensuring that she wouldn't be swallowed whole by the depths of memory.

Just as she closed the door of her room, it swung shut like the final curtain on a forgotten scene, and in that fleeting moment of darkness, she collided with a stranger—an unwelcome intruder in her carefully curated solitude.

Both of them stumbled back, each a startled deer on the edge of a dawn-lit glade, but when she peered into his face, the puzzle pieces did not fit; he was a shadow hovering beyond the familiar circle of Task Force 141, an untrained soldier still learning to navigate the jungle of their world.

"Watch your step," she warned, her voice the crack of a whip, before she turned away—leaving him as an echo of confusion, no more significant than a passing breeze.

As she walked off, Shinigami felt the weight of his gaze on her back, a lingering frost that wrapped around her like a cloak of indifference.

But she didn't care; in truth, she hoped he would drape his whispers of her rudeness over the others, planting seeds of caution in their minds—better to be seen as a thorn in their side than an open invitation to approach.

In the tangled garden of this military life, her barbed demeanor was the thorn she willingly wore, hoping it would keep the curious at bay.

Navigating the labyrinth of the base, she felt like a moth drawn to a flickering light—each soldier she passed a dim flame flickering in the periphery, their conversations buzzing like the distant hum of a busy hive.

Her mind was a compass, relentlessly spinning until finally finding true north; the briefing room awaited, a beacon of focus amid the chaos.

After what felt like hours, she arrived at the door. With resolve, she raised her hands and knocked twice, the sound resonating like a heartbeat in the stillness.

"Come in," a familiar voice called from within, shattering the tension as she pushed the door open, stepping into the world of plans and purpose.

Inside, the scene unfolded like a well-rehearsed play, Price and Ghost engrossed in their discussion, the table between them a battlefield of plans and strategies. But she notices someone's missing.

She searched the room for Gaz—an empty chair and a lingering silence telling her he had slipped away, leaving no more than a whisper of his presence. Guess he has left. She thought to herself. When Price looks up from the table at her, he sees this. "If you're looking for Gaz, he already left a while ago to the cafeteria. You can catch him on his way if you leave now."

But like a compass drawn to true north, she redirects her focus to him, shaking her head firmly. "No. I was here looking for you."

Price's eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued, much like a cat intrigued by the rustle of leaves. She continues, "Where could I see all soldiers' files here? I want to read through them and get started as soon as possible."

At the mention of this, Ghost looked up to her, a fleeting spark igniting like a firefly in the dusk of his demeanor. She sensed his subtle gaze weaving through the air towards her, but she deftly avoided its grasp, her focus locked onto Price like a ship anchored in still waters.

"Eager, are we?" Price chuckled, stepping away from the table with the ease of a seasoned soldier. He strode to the cupboard, pulling something from its depths—a key.

Then he approached her, handed her the key. "I'm sure you passed the office before going to your room," he continued, voice rich and inviting, "But instead of going straight, took a turn left and there'll be a storage room where all files are kept—it's a door with a name, easy to find."

She looked down at the key, a little grin blossoming on her lips like a new moon in a dark sky.

When she raised her gaze again, her eyes sparkled with a lingering shadow—an unreadable mystery cloaked in playful mischief, inviting yet elusive, like the night itself beckoning her deeper into its embrace. "Aren't you afraid I might do something with this?"

Her verbal jab was meant to be a checkmate, a blow to his composure. But instead of the thunderous clash of conflict she anticipated, he countered with a smirk, a sly, knowing smile that mirrored her own, a sign that he saw through her bravado.

"You won't," he quipped, his words like a sharp gust of wind, "at least not with the name of your grandfather on your shoulder."

His words shattered her playful demeanor like glass, her face turning as flat and cold as a winter sky. The mischievous glint evaporating into the air as if it was never there in the first place.

"Very well," she said, her voice a fortified wall, resolute and unyielding. But the tightness of her fisted hands at her side betrayed a storm brewing just beneath the surface. "627."

Without waiting for his response, she took the key from his hand, then pivoted on her heels and slipped out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.