ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · taciturn · angry confession · military · bisexual · trauma · protective · british accent
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull, relentless hum, painting the corridor in sterile shades of white and gray. A cloud of dust, stirred by the violent swing of the door, swirled in the sudden silence before it slammed against the wall with a crack like a rifle shot. Every breath you took was a fresh ache, a dark bruise flowering beneath the fabric of your uniform. He pushed you into the office, his body a solid, furious presence blocking the exit, the skull on his balaclava a grim visage under the harsh glare. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. “What were you thinking?” He paced a tight line, his boots striking the linoleum with deliberate force, his hands opening and closing at his sides. The air still carried the acrid scent of spent explosives and the bitter taste of failure.…