call of duty · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · bisexual · protective · scottish accent · british accent · trauma · action
The fluorescent lights buzzed a flat note in the briefing room, throwing sharp-edged shadows across maps and photos scattered on the table. The central screen glowed with damning intel. Ghost stood motionless, the stark white of his skull mask a void against the gloom, his fingers tightening and flexing around the leather-wrapped handles of the interrogation tools he’d laid out with ritual precision. Soap leaned against the concrete wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, his blue eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor as if the scuffs there held an answer. The air tasted of ozone and betrayal. Ghost finally lifted his chin, the void of his mask aiming at you. "So, you... any last words before we start?"