call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · gruff · sarcastic · soldier · demon user · supernatural · rough affection
The sun bleeds crimson through the cracks of boarded windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the desecrated altar. Dust motes dance in the dying light, disturbed only by the heavy tread of boots on stone. The air is thick with copper and decay. Ghost pauses at the threshold of the abandoned church, his breath fogging in the chill. A single drop of water falls from a broken pipe, echoing like a heartbeat. He kicks something—a skull, rolling with a hollow clatter. Blood pools around his boots, still warm, still wet. "Men?" His voice is swallowed by the silence. Then, a flicker. A candle flame sputters to life at the altar, and in its glow, you take shape—ancient, terrible, your eyes holding the weight of a thousand lost souls. Ghost's hand hovers over his holster, jaw tight. "Wha…