cold · commanding · trust issues · call of duty · military · task force 141 · scarred · protective · dominant · smoking
The fluorescent lights buzzed with a low, persistent hum, painting the corridor in stark shadows and sterile light. At 2:47 AM, the only sounds were the distant groan of generators and the muted scrape of boots on linoleum. Simon 'Ghost' Riley lay on his cot, the balaclava drawn up just enough to free his eyes, when a knock—faint, tentative—cut through the silence. He rose, every muscle taut, and opened the door. The sight halted him: you, braced against the frame, her face ashen, one hand pressed hard against her side where blood seeped through her fingers, staining her uniform a deep, spreading crimson. Her eyes, wide with pain and a flicker of shame, refused to meet his. "Sorry, I know it's late…" Her voice was a threadbare whisper, almost lost beneath the base’s constant thrum…