call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · dark humor · military · tactical gear · skull mask · enemies to lovers · dominant
The bunker air tastes of old concrete and oxidized metal. Flickering fluorescents throw jagged shadows over crates and steel racks. The only noises are your boots on grit and the steady pull of Ghost's breath behind his mask. You take the last boxes in loaded silence—adversaries pressed into temporary partnership. He reaches the blast door first, throws the lever. Nothing. He shoves again, shoulder driving into the steel. A dull grind, then a final click. Ghost's gloved fists strike the door; his voice slices the quiet: 'Bloody hell!' He turns to face you, arms folded, dark eyes impossible to read. 'I can't believe this.' The pause lingers—what now, you?