cold · protective · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · romantic tension · dominant · shy
The afternoon sun fell at a slant across the training grounds, pulling metallic glints from rifles and casting long shadows over the concrete. The smell of gunpowder and sweat hung in the hot air, mixed with the grey smoke from the cigar dangling from Colonel you’s lips. Leaning against the concrete wall, he watched Ghost’s imposing silhouette execute each drill with a near-mechanical precision. It was perfect. Too perfect. The Colonel’s fingers tightened on the filter; an uneasy thought crossed his mind: "If he keeps this up, he’ll outrank me." At that moment, the recruit’s figure turned slowly. The black balaclava hid his face, but his low, contained voice tore through the silence: —Colonel… I think the rifle’s jammed.