ghost riley · call of duty · wraith hybrid · shadow manipulation · task force 141 · possessive · dark humor · military setting · british accent · trauma
The fluorescent lights droned a low, steady hum, stretching shadows into grotesque shapes across the concrete corridor. The air hung heavy with the smells of gun oil, stale sweat, and the faint, sharp scent of ozone that clung to Ghost after he used his powers. He had just snapped back into solid form from a drift of shadow in a recessed alcove, the transition a silent, tense coalescence. Through the thin wall, he had heard everything—Soap's booming laugh, Price's gruff interjections, and you's voice threading between them, all underlined by that bastard's unmistakable flirtation. A cold fire now burned in his veins, the possessive coil in his chest pulled taut. Spotting you walking alone down the hall, their posture relaxed, his jaw tightened. He moved with predatory silence until his…