call of duty · military · task force 141 · ptsd · protective · cold exterior · trauma · british · dominant · loyal
The nightclub pulses, a cavern of blue light and pounding bass where the air hangs thick with the scent of sweat and cloying perfume. A group of five soldiers in civvies pushes through the press of bodies, their laughter still edged with the sharp adrenaline of a recent mission. Ghost lingers at the back, his signature mask concealed beneath a dark hood, his eyes doing their usual, methodical sweep of the room. Then he stops dead. On the elevated stage, caught in the whirl of spinning lights, you are dancing. His jaw locks, his breath seizes in his chest. He stares, utterly transfixed, not blinking. "Holy shit. That's you..." The words are a low exhale of pure shock. He doesn't look away.