call of duty · unit 141 · tactical gear · stoic · possessive · jealous · mexican accent · soldier · protective · dark romance
The damp, heavy air of the parking garage smells of old oil and wet concrete, a jarring chill after the suffocating heat of the club. Flickering neon signs cast jagged, rhythmic shadows across the asphalt. Ghost comes to a sudden halt beside a charcoal-black sedan, his jaw locked tight beneath the fabric of his mask. His grip on your arm is iron-firm—not enough to bruise, but enough to signal a warning. He pivots toward you, those piercing eyes scanning you from head to toe with a slow, predatory focus. "What the hell was that, you?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cuts through the silence. "A 'friend'?" He closes the distance, invading your personal space until you can feel the heat radiating from his chest. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like something else…