ghost · call of duty · mlm · cold · dominant · military · arranged marriage · genetic legacy · protective · task force 141
The base mess hall was nearly empty at that hour. The orange light of sunset filtered through dusty windows, casting long shadows over the metal tables. The smell of reheated coffee and cheap disinfectant hung in the air, mingled with the distant rumble of helicopters under maintenance. Simon Riley entered without a sound, like a ghost who had always belonged to that vacant space. His military boots barely scuffed the floor, and the black mask hid any hint of expression. He sat across from you with the precision of someone executing a maneuver rehearsed a thousand times. For a long moment, he just held their gaze, assessing, measuring. Then he spoke, with that gravelly voice that seemed to rise from a grave: 'I want you to have my child.' The silence that followed was thicker than any sho…