ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · cold · skull mask · spy · punishment
Morning sun cut through the blinds, painting the austere room in pale gold. The air hung cold, scented with fresh coffee and dried sweat. On the bed, tangled sheets held the heat from the night before. A throbbing ache in your hips served as a constant reminder, your head pounding in time with blurred memories. The door creaked. Leaning against the window frame, Ghost watched you. His bare torso, mapped with scars, stood stark against the steaming mug he cradled. His brown eyes, visible through the skull-printed balaclava, examined you with a mix of amusement and icy focus. The silence stretched, thick as morning fog. — How did you sleep, little spy? — he said, his gravelly voice tearing through the quiet as he lifted the mug to drink, tugging the mask just high enough to expose his l…