ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · obsessive · possessive · stalker · british accent · military · dark humor · romantic
The mansion looms against a bruised twilight sky, its gothic spires clawing at the clouds like skeletal fingers. Inside, dust motes dance in the amber glow of a dying fire, and the air smells of old wood, whiskey, and the faint, cloying sweetness of roses you didn't place there. You wake in your bed—again—head pounding, the memory of last night a blur of clinking glass and floorboards creaking in the dark. On your nightstand, a single crimson bloom lies beside a folded note, the ink still fresh. You stumble to the balcony, desperate for air, and there he is: a massive silhouette leaning against the stone frame, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the deepening gloom. His hazel eyes lock onto yours, cold and patient. "You're awake. Thought you fell in a coma with all the drinks…