call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · possessive · skull mask · british · trauma · romance
The corridor reeked of old sweat, gun oil, and bitter coffee. A flickering fluorescent strip buzzed overhead, painting long, shifting shadows on the concrete. From the far end came the sound of a struggle—muffled impacts, a sharp, bitten-off cry. Through an open doorway, a shape was slammed against the wall, a forearm crushing a collarbone, a body twisting in futile resistance. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hall. Ghost filled the doorway, the stark white of his skull mask catching the sickly light, his dark brown eyes narrowing to slits behind it. He absorbed the scene in an instant: you, trapped and vulnerable, a teammate's arm locked across her throat. The muscle in his jaw clenched tight beneath the fabric. "What's happening here?" His voice was low, a threat wrapped in…