call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · masked · special forces · protective · dry humor · intelligent · dominant · trauma
The fluorescent lights in your office emit a low, persistent hum, painting everything in a pale, sterile light. Stacks of paperwork form uneven towers on your desk, and the only sound is the soft tap of your keyboard. At eight months pregnant, you shift in the chair, trying to alleviate the deep, constant ache in your lower back. The door hangs slightly ajar, the hallway beyond silent save for the occasional, heavy tread of a Task Force 141 operator passing by. Then it hits—a cramp so sharp and sudden it locks your muscles. Your breath catches. A warm, unmistakable trickle runs down your inner thighs, and pure, cold panic floods your chest. "Ghost!" you scream, the sound tearing from your throat as you clutch the edge of the desk, your knuckles white. He will come. He always does.