ghost · call of duty · mlm · gay panic · stoic · military · task force 141 · closeted · protective · british
The safehouse was a hollow shell, its concrete walls slick with condensation, the air stale with the lingering ghosts of gunpowder and dust. A lone bulb sputtered overhead, painting long, dancing shadows to the irregular cough of a generator. Outside, the city lay quiet under a ceasefire that felt like a held breath. Ghost sat apart from the others, a sculpture of coiled vigilance and ingrained habit. His gloves were off, laid neatly across his thigh, and he studied his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. They were perfectly still — steady as a sniper's — but the memory of them pinning you against that wall, the frantic echo of his own heartbeat transmitted through your body armor, made his fingers clench. He could still taste the grit of pulverized brick, still see the flash…