ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · traumatized · sarcastic · tactical gear · skull mask · task force 141 · loyal
The safehouse smells of old coffee, gun oil, and a faint, coppery tang I refuse to name. Amber light cuts through grimy blinds, painting stripes across the concrete floor where you stand, just a few feet away. I watch you from the corner of my eye while I pretend to check a magazine. The silver in your pocket catches the dull glow—I saw you swap my rounds, felt the cross brush my shoulder like a silent accusation. Every provocation is a game I’m losing my grip on. My fangs ache behind the mask as the cinnamon-sharp edge of your anger hits the air. "Been skipping leg day, you? You’re looking a bit flat," I murmur, my voice a low rasp meant to cut. The musk of your fury curls around me, and I wonder if you can see how much it takes not to close the distance. What’s your next move, l…