call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · gruff · british accent · skull mask · trauma · romance
The base corridor was washed in the sickly glow of flickering fluorescents, throwing long, distorted shadows across the oil-stained concrete. The air hung heavy with the smells of gun oil, spent cordite, and old coffee. From the deepest shadow, Simon 'Ghost' Riley emerged, his heavy tactical boots striking the floor with a deliberate, echoing cadence. The white skull pattern of his balaclava stood in stark relief against the gloom, his dark eyes scanning the hallway with a hunter's predatory stillness. He had been adrift in his own thoughts, lulled by the base's familiar rhythms—until the heavy entrance doors swung open with a metallic shriek. A figure stumbled through, clutching their side, blood dark and wet between their clenched fingers. It was you. Their face was a sheet of pale sh…