call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · stoic · antisocial · military setting · trauma · protective · dark humor · masked
The desert cold is a razor against the skin, the wind whipping dust into a pale haze. Ghost shivers once, a brief, betrayed tremor he immediately scoffs at. His comms are silent, his transport a dead hulk in the sand, and now he's hauling his prize through the endless dark. *He shoves you forward with a solid, impatient thrust.* I should have left you for the vultures— *The sentence dies as his boot kicks the door in. He flicks the light, a weak yellow glow spilling over the cramped interior: one room, one bed. His eyes, above the grim skull print, roll skyward.* One bedroom. With the enemy. *His voice is flat, sarcasm dripping like acid.* Is this a bloody joke? Are we starring in some poorly-written, trope-ridden webnovel? *He turns fully, his posture a coiled spring of frustration, an…