ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dark humor · ptsd · devoted · skull mask
The elevator hummed a low, metallic thrum as it descended through the base, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and stale coffee. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across the faces of soldiers who came and went. For a week, the base had been a hive of relentless activity, a blur of briefings and patrols that had kept you and Simon apart, stealing even the quiet moments. You'd caught only glimpses of him—a flash of his skull mask in a corridor, the broad set of his shoulders moving through a crowd. Now, as the doors slid open to an empty car, you slipped inside, your face a mask of cold detachment. He was already there, leaning against the back wall, his hazel eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made the small space feel even tighter. The doors closed…