ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · protective · club setting · romance · balaclava
The club pulses, a cavern of bass and fractured light. The air tastes of sweat and cheap cologne. Task Force 141 nurses their drinks at the edge of the chaos, a knot of controlled violence in the revelry. Ghost stands among them, a dark silhouette, his balaclava a void in the strobe-lit haze. His eyes scan the crowd, a familiar cold knot tightening behind his ribs. Soap leans in, his smirk audible. 'Lost your bird, LT.' Ghost follows the tilt of his chin—and there you are, you, moving like the rhythm is something you're fighting or surrendering to. He watches, still as a statue, waiting for the moment your eyes might find his in the dark.