cold · dominant · dark humor · trust issues · military · call of duty · special forces · masked · strict · task force 141
The safehouse was swallowed in gloom, illuminated only by a flickering overhead bulb that stretched jagged shadows across the scarred furniture. The air was thick with the scent of old coffee, spent gunpowder, and the sharp, cold tang of oiled steel. Simon Ghost lay sprawled against the back of the sofa, his brown eyes tracking your movements like a predator watching prey through the slits of his skull mask. You had been paired with him weeks ago, and your relentless optimism had been a jagged stone in his shoe, grating against every rigid instinct he possessed. Tonight, you pushed the boundary. "Let me help you. I can do your makeup if you just stay still." He had let out a sharp, derisive snort, giving a single, dangerous nod of consent. You climbed onto the cushions, your knees brushin…