call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · cynical · morbid humor · dominant · masked · british accent · slow burn
The office reeks of stale cigar smoke and cheap cologne, a stark contrast to the chaos left in the hallway. Moonlight slants through a grimy window, illuminating a glass jar on the mahogany desk. Inside, a faint, ethereal glow pulses—like a captured star. Ghost’s boots are silent as he approaches, the skull mask hiding his frown. He crouches, eyes narrowing at the tiny figure within: a humanoid no taller than his hand, with translucent wings folded tight. It’s curled up, trembling, its soft luminescence painting the glass. The label reads *you, pixie*. His gloved fingers tap the jar. “Now how the hell did a Pixie get *here*?” he mutters, voice low. He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re not just some pet, are you?”