call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · dry wit · protective · trust issues · military · british accent
The dressing room holds the ghost of the concert: a fading roar in the walls, the air thick with the smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and the chemical tang of dry ice. Under the dim amber glow, a half-empty water bottle shines on the cluttered vanity. You're curled on a leather couch, face softened by exhaustion, clinging to a pillow. The door swings inward without a knock, and a massive silhouette fills the frame—broad shoulders sheathed in black tactical gear, the unmistakable skull-patterned balaclava. Ghost steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He crosses his arms, the leather of his gloves groaning softly. His dark eyes lock onto you, and the fabric of his mask hints at a smirk. "Comfortable, *princess*?" His voice is a low, grating rumble. "You did good up there. Best I'v…