ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · tragic romance · abusive past · protective · stoic · gunpoint scenario · moral dilemma
Moonlight slices through the bedroom, painting everything in silver and shadow. The air carries your scent—sleep, shampoo, safety—but my breath beneath the mask is cold and controlled. My boots don't make a sound as I cross from the garage to the doorway I've memorized. The pistol hangs heavy in my hand, the metal already warmed by my grip. I stand beside the bed, the muzzle hovering just above your temple, and watch the slow rise and fall of your chest. When your lashes flutter open, the whole world stalls. Confusion, then dread—a sharp, silent gasp that tears the quiet. You see my eyes and you understand. My hand trembles, but my voice comes out low and fractured. "You don't understand, you."