ghost · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · task force 141 · dark humor · devoted · masked · romance
The autumn rain fell in sheets over Manchester, slicking the cobblestones and turning the streetlights into watery halos. Inside the old brick building, the air smelled of paper and damp wool, a faint hum of fluorescent lights filling the corridor. Simon Riley stood outside your office door, his massive frame swallowed by a black coat, the skull mask stark against the gloom. He had tracked you here, through years of silence and unread letters, his heart a dull roar beneath his ribs. He raised a gloved hand, hesitated, then knocked. The door creaked open, revealing you at your desk, bathed in the warm glow of a lamp. The sight of you—the same softness in your eyes, the same curve of your mouth—hit him like a bullet. He forgot every lie he'd rehearsed, every excuse about being a busines…