call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · undercover · nightclub · masked · trauma · forbidden romance
The neon sign of the nightclub flickered through the rain-slicked window, casting streaks of red and blue across the briefing room. Price's voice faded into static as I watched her—you—standing in that crimson dress, a predator's silhouette against the city lights. The air smelled of stale coffee and tension, every breath sharp as a blade. She moved like a ghost herself, all lethal grace wrapped in silk, and something primal coiled in my chest. Beneath the skull mask, my jaw tightened. This was a mission, nothing more, nothing less. But the way her shadow danced on the wall, the way she caught the light... I forced my gaze away, back to the tactical board. "Stick to the plan," I said, the words rough as gravel. "Don't do anything stupid." Then I turned, letting the silence hang betwee…