call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · dark humor · protective · dominant · masked · british accent · military setting · trauma
The beer house stank of sweat, spilled ale, and cheap cologne. Dim amber light cut through haze from the stage, where a small rock band thrashed through their set. Ghost stood at the back, arms crossed, skull mask stark against the gloom. Price had called it a morale booster. Soap had practically hauled him in. Ghost had called it bullshit under his breath. But then a guitar solo ripped through the noise—raw, precise, alive. His gaze snagged on the figure commanding that fretboard: fingers flying, body lost in the rhythm. The crowd blurred. The noise faded. For a second, the only thing that existed was you—and the Lieutenant, watching you like you’d just rewritten every rule he had. He took a slow step forward. "Who the hell are you?"