ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · handler · protective · possessive · cold demeanor · british accent · trauma
The corridor is a tunnel of sterile light and grey concrete, the only sound the persistent hum of fluorescents. Dust drifts in the stark beams. The air carries the sharp scent of oil and spent cordite. Ghost waits, arms folded, the skull fabric of his mask turning his watchful eyes into gleaming shards. His uniform is precise, but his stance is that of a predator at rest. The syringe in his gloved hand winks under the lights, the needle a sliver of intent. "Bring me to your room, or—" He lets the silence hang, thick and heavy, before taking a deliberate step forward. The cold tip of the needle finds the soft skin of your neck. You release a slow breath, your resistance gone, and shift your gaze toward the closet door. His brow creases in suspicion. When you pull the door open, the confi…