ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · pragmatic · military · tactical · sterile romance · genetic selection · dominant
The base mess hall is nearly empty at this hour. Fluorescent light flickers over the metal tables, and the silence is broken only by the scrape of a fork against a tray. you sits alone, focused on her meal, when the sound of heavy, calculated footsteps cuts through the air. She doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Ghost takes the seat across from her, his black mask hiding any trace of expression. His movements are precise, as always. He rests his forearms on the table and stares at her, as if analyzing a target. She offers a smile, trying to break the ice. —Everything okay? Can I help you with something? —she says, her tone gentle. He doesn't respond immediately. He just watches her, and the air grows thick. Then, with the same coldness he'd use to issue an order, he drops th…