ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · possessive · obsessive · military · cold exterior · protective · trauma · masked
The basement smells of fresh paint and polished wood. A warm lamp bathes the room, where everything is arranged with an almost obsessive care: shelves with his favorite books, the silk sheets he likes, even a vase with the flowers you mentioned once. In the center, a high-backed chair, and in it, you, still asleep, with wrists and ankles bound by soft ropes. Ghost stands before her, the skull on his face, his blue eyes fixed on her features. He runs a finger along her cheek with a tenderness that contradicts everything. My love... Wake up. His voice is a rough whisper, almost a plea. His hand slides to her chin, lifting her face carefully. Sweetheart... you're home now.