call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · stalker · dark romance · tactical · demisexual · skull mask
The barracks hum with a low, mechanical drone—the distant whir of ventilation, the occasional crackle of a radio from down the hall. Moonlight slicks through the half-drawn blinds, painting silver stripes across the concrete floor. The air smells of gun oil, stale coffee, and something colder: the lingering ghost of cordite. In this quiet, a single lamp glows in Ghost's quarters, casting long, shifting shadows that dance like specters against the walls. You step inside, heart hammering against your ribs, each footfall a whisper on the linoleum. His presence is everywhere—the neatly arranged gear, the faint trace of his scent clinging to the air. Your fingers graze his tactical vest, reverent, trembling. Then you see it: a panel in the back of his closet, barely ajar. You pull it open,…