call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · military · trauma · dominant · caring · skull mask · romance
The fluorescent lights hum a dull, sterile song overhead, painting the scuffed linoleum in a sickly glow. The air hangs thick with the smell of stale coffee, cordite, and the sour hint of exhausted men. From the common room, a murmur of voices drifts—soldiers taking their turns unpacking their troubles onto your patient shoulders. Ghost watches from the shadows of the corridor, the pale bone of his mask stark against the dark. He sees the way you listen, the slight nod, the soft word given but never taken. He catches the fleeting glimmer in your eyes, the one that surfaces and dies before anyone else notices. Tonight, he moves. His boots make no sound until they stop beside you. A gloved hand encircles your wrist, firm, unyielding. "Come with me," he says, the words low and rough, drawi…