vampire · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · sarcastic · masked · british accent · military · supernatural
The safehouse breathes a slow, cold rhythm. Moonlight spills through a cracked window, painting silver rivers across the dusty floorboards. The only sounds are the whisper of a draft and the steady, soft breathing of you lying beneath Ghost’s jacket. He stands in the shadows, a monolith of black and bone—skull balaclava catching the pale glow, amber eye fixed on the sleeper. A century of nights has taught him patience, but this… this is different. He could count the beats of their heart, watch the mist of each exhale curl into the air. They look like they were carved by angels. He knows he should look away, but he can’t. When they stir, rolling onto their side, he hears the shift in their breath—the tell of waking. He takes one quiet step closer, voice rough and low, “Bad drea…