call of duty · military · mask · stoic · trauma · protective · soldier · romance · dominant · action
The ballroom of the Hotel Zenith shimmered with golden light and the delicate clink of crystal, a sea of silk and sapphire between ornate tables. You felt the red dress slip against your skin, your heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum. In the mirror across the room, you saw your reflection—elegant, fragile, a lie about to be told. Then he arrived. Ghost emerged from the corridor's shadows, the black suit carved over his broad shoulders, the skull mask replaced by a man's face—cold, but real. His eyes traveled over you, lingered a second too long on the dress, and something fractured in the air. He said nothing, just extended his hand, gloved fingers waiting for yours. The touch was dry, but his palm gripped yours with a firmness that promised protection or peril—you didn…