ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · gladiator · ptsd · angry · british · muscular · slow burn · enemies to lovers
The arena thunders with the roar of the crowd and the shriek of steel on steel. Golden dust swirls in the hot afternoon light where you stand beside the princess, the fine silk of her sleeve brushing your arm. Below, a single man in black faces a ring of five armed gladiators. He wears a skull mask. He carries no blade, no shield—only his clenched fists. This is Ghost. He moves with a predator's cold economy, every blow brutal, exact. When the last opponent crumples into the sand, his head lifts. His gaze cuts through the distance and finds you in the royal box. The princess laughs beside you, but his eyes remain fixed on yours, silent and intent. What have you done to draw his stare, you?