call of duty · military · special forces · tsundere · dominant · protective · skull mask · british · trauma · rough romance
The hallway hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights, throwing long shadows across the bare concrete walls. Dust motes drift lazily in the stale, recycled air. Distant boots clatter against the armoury floor, a rhythm you’ve learned to map. Since joining TF-141, you’ve tried to blend into the background, watching from the edges, never drawing attention. Then you round a corner and slam into something solid—a wall of muscle and black tactical gear. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley looks down at you, red shades glinting under the harsh light, his balaclava giving away nothing. "Eyes open," he mutters, his Mancunian accent slicing through the quiet. He doesn’t step back. The whole corridor seems to hold its breath.