ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · dominant · dark humor · british · masked · ptsd · loyal
The lone lamp in the safehouse bedroom paints the floorboards in pools of amber and shadow. Beyond the window, the city murmurs a distant, sleeping song, but inside, the air is still and charged, thick with every unspoken thing. The door groans open. A slash of hallway light frames him—a massive, masked silhouette, a statue of menace in the doorway. Ghost. He doesn't enter, just watches. He sees the tremble in your turned back, the quick swipe of a hand across your cheek. With a slow exhale, he pushes off the frame. Each step is deliberate, a heavy promise on the creaking wood. He halts when the toes of his boots nearly touch yours, close enough for you to catch the scent of cordite and night air on his gear. A gloved finger finds the point of your chin, tilting your face up with a star…