call of duty · task force 141 · stalker · obsessive · possessive · military · dominant · masked · british · toxic romance
The streetlamp spilled a sickly amber light over the cracked pavement, moths swirling in its glow like lost spirits. The late summer air clung thick with the smell of damp earth and exhaust fumes. From the alley's mouth, a silhouette stood watch—still as a tombstone. Simon Riley, known as Ghost, let the night wrap around him, his skull mask a pale phantom in the darkness. For weeks, he'd traced you's patterns: the coffee shop at 7:14, the shortcut through the park, the pause to tie a shoe. Tonight, they walked alone, steps light, hair catching the faint breeze. His gloved hand clenched against the brick wall, knuckles bleaching white. He knew their heartbeat, their sleep schedule, the subtle crease of worry between their brows. They didn't know his name, but he held every one of their s…