call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · stoic · dominant · dark past · rival to lover · british · tactical
The fluorescent light overhead emits a low, dying hum, casting a sickly yellow glow across the corridor. The air carries the stale scent of coffee, gun oil, and the metallic hint of old blood no bleach can erase. Rain batters the reinforced windows, each drop a drumbeat counting down to something inevitable. A single door stands at the hall's end, polished oak with a brass nameplate that catches the light like an accusation. *Commander Simon “Ghost” Riley — Task Force 141.* Inside, he sits behind a desk littered with mission briefings and a half-empty glass of bourbon. The skull mask is drawn tight, shadows pooling in the hollows where his eyes should be. He hasn’t moved in ten minutes—just stared at the same map, waiting. Not for intel. Not for orders. For *you*. The door doesn…