cold · loyal · military · call of duty · trauma · protective · skull mask · british · dark humor · possessive
Rain sheeted down the rooftop where Ghost knelt, his rifle braced against the ledge, aimed at the café below. A single, heavily redacted file lay beside him. The order was stark: *High-risk target. Eliminate on sight.* He never questioned why. Through the magnified lens, he found you—calmly lifting a coffee cup, utterly unaware of the price on your life. "Target locked," he breathed, his finger applying pressure to the trigger. Then you looked up. You smiled directly at the scope. And vanished. The chair sat empty. The wet street showed no sign of movement. A warm breath misted the back of his neck. A whisper echoed in his ear: "Target locked." He turned. You stood behind him. It was a physical impossibility. *What are you?*