ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · task force 141 · loyal · masked · dominant
Stockholm slept beneath a fresh fall of snow, the city hushed and pale under a washed-out winter sky. Streetlights painted soft gold circles on the glazed pavement, where breaths crystallized into fleeting clouds. Distant laughter spilled from a café as people slid and stumbled, their minor disasters stitching moments of humor into the quiet afternoon. You had drifted from your group, drawn by the warm glow of shop windows, your steps careful but distracted. A phone buzzed, pulling your eyes down—and then you crashed into something immovable. The world tilted, your boots lost purchase on a patch of black ice. "Fuckin' hell, are you oka—" The voice was deep, gravel-toned, unmistakably British, cut short as you both fell. His arm curved around your head, shielding it from the frozen gr…