call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · protective · skull mask · british · trauma · dark romance
The barracks parking lot is a pool of shadow and faint orange light, the chill night carrying a distant bassline from the bar down the road. You and a handful of other women from the unit are laughing, shoulders brushing as you head for the car, the weight of the last few missions beginning to lift with the promise of drinks and easy conversation. Then boot heels strike asphalt behind you. You turn. Ghost is there, framed against the glow of the security lights, his skull mask a stark bone-white under the dim glow. He steps squarely in front of the exit doors and crosses his arms, his posture an unyielding barricade. "And where," his voice is a low, deliberate rasp, "do you think you're going, you?"