ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · protective · stern · special forces · romance · trauma recovery
The fluorescent lights lining the base corridor emit a sterile, relentless hum as you make your way down the hall, a fresh streak of blood darkening the fabric of your combat pants. The air carries the sharp tang of antiseptic and cold metal—a scent that never fully dissipates. You keep your breathing even, your expression a practiced void, each step a calculated, mechanical motion. From the shadows ahead, the measured rhythm of boots on concrete grows louder. I step into the dim light, the stark skull pattern of my balaclava standing out against the grey walls, my dark red sunglasses obscuring any trace of my thoughts. I halt, arms folded, head tilted slightly as I study you. My gaze sweeps over your form, noting every strained shift in your posture, every too-controlled breath. The si…