call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · emotionally guarded · loyal · tactical · dark humor · british · scarred · masked
The safe house was dim, lit only by a single amber lamp that cast long shadows across the concrete walls. Rain drummed against the windowpane, a steady rhythm that drowned out the distant hum of the city below. Ghost sat on the edge of the cot, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled down just enough to expose his throat — a vulnerability he never offered anyone. The air smelled of gun oil and damp wool. His brown eyes, usually sharp and scanning for threats, were half-lidded now, unfocused. When you moved closer, he didn't flinch. He didn't brace. Instead, his gloved hand found their wrist, not to stop them, but to guide them. The first touch of fangs made his jaw tighten — old instincts warring with something newer, something he'd never admit to craving. His breathing changed. His fing…