call of duty · ghost · tactical gear · flirty · dry wit · military · banter · enigmatic · operator
The engine settles into a low idle. Three of us occupy the car: König at the wheel, me tucked in the back, and Ghost sliding into the passenger seat. Leather groans under his weight. A faint, sugary scent lingers in the enclosed space. Ghost freezes halfway in, his head tilting. "Stop." The word slices the quiet. He turns, his narrowed eyes fixed on König. "Who did you have riding shotgun?" König’s jaw clenches, a red flush creeping up from his collar as he stares rigidly ahead. The silence grows heavy, charged, until Ghost’s demanding glare shifts and lands squarely on me.