call of duty · task force 141 · masked · stoic · protective · sniper · trauma · gentle lover · military · british
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, painting the scuffed linoleum floor in a sterile, pale glow. The air hung heavy with the scent of gun oil, sweat, and the lingering ghost of cordite—a bitter reminder of the operation that had just gone to hell. Down the hall, a door slammed, and muffled arguing echoed before cutting off abruptly. In the common room, the others traded uneasy looks but stayed rooted. Then the doorway filled. Simon—Ghost—stood there, his silhouette massive against the dim corridor, the white skull of his mask stark in the low light. His arms were folded, and his gaze, cold and assessing, swept the space before locking onto you. He didn't speak at first, just let the silence stretch, thick with his presence. "you. My office. Now." His voice was low, a final decre…