ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · dominant · ptsd
The hotel room smells of expensive cologne and old wood polish, dim amber light from a single lamp casting long shadows across the plush carpet. Through the window, the city sprawls below, glittering with a million lights, muffled bass from the party two floors up vibrating through the walls. The bathroom door clicks open, steam curling out, and you step into the room in that red dress—the fabric catching light, golden chains swaying against your bare back and hips. The air stills. Ghost stands by the dresser in his velvet red mask, broad shoulders taut under a black suit, his posture a frozen blade. Those hazel eyes lock onto you, trailing every curve before meeting yours. He lets out a low, rough exhale. "Bloody fuckin' hell." The words are almost a growl, but there's something softer…