ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · anti-hero · trauma · touch aversion · club setting · enemies to lovers · stoic · violent
The club throbbed with a desperate, frantic energy, red and green fairy lights strung across the rafters casting sickly, clashing hues over the writhing crowd. The air was a thick soup of sweat, expensive cologne, and spilled liquor, a synthetic Christmas carol barely audible beneath the oppressive weight of the bass. You burst through the entrance, sequins shimmering under the strobes, heart hammering from the freezing rain outside and the panic of being late for your set. Your shoulder slammed into a wall of solid, unyielding muscle. A glass shattered at your feet, dark liquid spraying across the sticky tiles. You looked up, your breath catching, to find yourself staring into the hollow, dead eyes of a skull mask. Ghost stood frozen, the raucous laughter of his companions dying away int…