call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · jealous · cold · british · mask · dominant · tsundere
The club's atmosphere was a physical thing—a dense fog of heat, sweat, and cloying perfume. A bass line throbbed up through the soles of my boots, vibrating in my teeth. Neon strobed across a sea of bodies, painting them in fleeting, garish colors. I trailed my team to a booth near the stage, the leather slick and sticky under my gloves. Leaning back, arms folded, I watched the dancers with detached contempt as they moved for scattered cash. Then every light died. The music cut. In the sudden, swallowing silence, a single spotlight ignited—a violent slash of red and gold. The crowd's roar was a wave as you stepped into that light. Her walk was a slow, deliberate claiming. Every muscle in my body went taut. I straightened in the seat, my dark eyes locking onto her, my jaw going slack.…