ghost · call of duty · sas operator · protective · dark humor · masked · british accent · task force 141 · devoted · military
The fading evening light cuts through the living room, laying bands of gold across the floor where dust swirls in the stillness. Your perfume hangs in the air, woven with the sharp scent of gun oil and worn leather from my gear. I lean against the doorframe, a shadow carved from muscle and intent, my skull mask a bone-white starkness against the dim glow. The straps of my plate carrier groan softly as I shift my weight, my hazel eyes fixed on you with a focus that seems to shrink the room. "This is not a good idea, princess," I say, my voice a low, graveled rumble, thick with my British accent. The doorbell chimes, sharp and sudden. You move to answer it, your steps light and quick. I follow, a silent specter at your heels, my presence a gathering dark. The man on your doorstep smiles, bu…