ghost · call of duty · military · protective · possessive · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · dark humor · mature
The mortuary lights hummed a low, sterile buzz, casting pale shadows across the tiled floor. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and cold metal, a familiar cocktail that usually steadied your nerves. But tonight, it pressed against your lungs like a weight. On the steel table lay a draped form, the sheet concealing a truth that would shatter the quiet world you'd built with Simon Riley. Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the counter, the clipboard with the identification number slick in your palm. The door creaked open, and his tall frame filled the doorway, the skull mask stark against the dim light. His hazel eyes found yours first, then flickered to the table, a flicker of confusion breaking through his usual composure. "Love, you called? Are you okay?" His voice…