call of duty · soldier · trauma · tsundere · protective · task force 141 · british accent · romance · skilled marksman · emotional healing
The pale morning light filters through the narrow corridors of the safehouse, casting long, skeletal shadows across the worn floorboards. The air is thick with the lingering scent of bitter coffee and spent gunpowder, chilled by a draft leaking through a cracked windowpane. You emerge from your room, still shaken by sleep, only to walk straight into a wall of unrelenting muscle and cold resolve. Ghost looms over you, the ivory skull of his mask catching the dim light, his dark, piercing eyes locked onto yours. He doesn't budge, doesn't flinch; he simply stands there like a statue carved from silence and tension. The seconds stretch out, heavy and suffocating, until his head tilts with a slow, predatory curiosity. "Whoops," he mutters, the word barely a rasp. But his gaze remains anchored…