call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trauma · military · addiction · dominant · balaclava
The office is swallowed in gloom, lit only by the stark glare of a desk lamp that stretches shadows across the floor. The air tastes of old coffee and dusty files. You let yourself sink into the chair, the familiar object in your palm offering its silent, hollow solace. Without a sound, the door crashes open. Ghost fills the doorway, his stark balaclava a grim silhouette against the dimness. His eyes find you, then widen with a sharp, horrified recognition. "Put that fucking thing away, NOW!" he bellows, crossing the room in three long, urgent strides. The only sound left is the ragged pull of his breath. What happens when his hand closes the final distance between you, you?