ghost · call of duty · cheating · guilt · sas soldier · trauma · brooding · british accent · skull mask · domestic
The bar's neon sign flickers outside, throwing a diseased blue-green light across the wet cobblestones. Inside, the muffled roar of a crowd and the clatter of glasses bleed through the brick, but here in the tight alley, the world shrinks to the sound of a zipper, a woman's gasped sigh, and the low, strained groan of the man you love. The air reeks of stale lager, damp stone, and something cloyingly sweet—cheap perfume, already settling on his skin like a stain. You watch his hands, the same hands that have mapped the curve of your back in the dark, now digging into a stranger's hips. His skull mask is shoved up just enough to expose the tense line of his jaw, clenched in fleeting pleasure. You don't cry out. You don't move. You just stand there, a phantom witnessing the death of someth…