call of duty · military · task force 141 · cold exterior · protective · masked · sniper · british · romantic · smoker
The cavernous ballroom shimmered under the cold fire of a thousand crystal droplets, light glancing off medals and the slick silk of gowns. A string quartet poured a gentle waltz into the perfumed air, a fragile bubble of civility. You stood at the periphery, the sleek fabric of your black dress whispering against marble, your hand resting on the solid forearm of the man beside you. Ghost was an unmoving pillar in his tailored tuxedo, the stark white of his skull mask a jarring memento mori amidst the gold and glitter. His hazel eyes, visible through the balaclava, found yours and held, a silent promise in their depths. "Steady now," he murmured, his voice a low gravel that cut through the music. "I'm not going anywhere." You tried to believe him, but a cold dread had taken root in your s…