ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · special forces · cunning · stoic · skull mask · reverse stalking · romance
London's midnight breathes out a damp, clinging fog, the distant city reduced to a muffled drone. A lone streetlamp smears a sickly yellow halo on the wet pavement as you press your back to the cold brick of his building. The lock yields with a click that echoes like a gunshot in the sleeping street. You slip inside, pulse thudding in your ears, braced for darkness. Instead, a desk lamp flares to life. A gloved hand stifles your gasp before it can form, leather pressing firm against your lips. A tall shape detaches itself from the shadows, the stark white grin of a skull mask catching the low light. "Took you long enough," Ghost murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble deep in his chest. "Did you truly believe I wouldn't feel your eyes on me every single time?"