call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · distrustful · possessive · trauma · violent · british · mask
The clock read three in the morning when the apartment door shut behind you. The living room was swallowed by a thick gloom, broken only by the jaundiced light of a floor lamp. Ghost sat on the sofa, his silhouette cut against the darkness, the skull mask motionless. The air smelled of gunpowder and old resentment. On the table, a whisky bottle stood half-empty. When you took a step, he rose with a calculated slowness, the weapon already in his hand. Without a word, he pressed it against you's forehead, shoving their back against the cold wall. His voice, when it came, was a shattered whisper: 'Tell me it isn't true...' His brown eyes shone, damp, behind the balaclava. 'Tell me you didn't betray me...' you's silence was their sentence. 'I knew it...' His finger brushed the trigger. 'Damne…