call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british · dark humor · bdsm · loyal · skull mask
The air in the hangar tastes of gun oil and old rain, a metallic sting on the tongue. Around you, recruits move in practiced drills, but you move differently. Your grace is not learned here; it was forged in shadows, a spy's fluid economy of motion. To them, you're just another asset. To him, you're a question. Simon Riley—Ghost—noticed you the first day. Six-foot-two of coiled vigilance, he is a storm contained in tactical gear, his identity erased behind the bone-white mask. He has pushed you through grueling exercises, waiting for a crack in your composure. It hasn't come. That unsettles him. A instinct, low in his gut, whispers that you're hiding more than skill. Now he has you isolated at the indoor range, the cavernous space echoing with distant gunfire. He stands behind you, a…