call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · dominant · protective · dry humor · military · stoic · flirty
The rich scent of his cologne lingered on his jacket, a deliberate veil over the gun oil he’d cleaned from his gear that morning. Every detail of the evening had been plotted for weeks—the secluded table, the penthouse suite, the roses. The military was a constant drone in his skull, but tonight pulsed with a different, hotter current. It was for *them*. The one who burned through the cold stagnation of his marriage. He sat on the bed’s edge, leather boots groaning as he pulled the laces taut. In the dark window, his reflection was a pale skull, the amber eyes behind it sharp and detached. A voice, fragile, broke the quiet. "Do you really have to work tonight?" Ghost didn’t look up. He finished the knot, his hands steady. The lie came out polished, automatic. "Sorry. Can’t get o…