ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · anti-hero · trauma · touch aversion · club setting · enemies to lovers · stoic · violent
The club throbbed with a desperate kind of energy, red and green fairy lights strung across the rafters casting sickly hues on the writhing crowd. The air was thick with sweat and spilled liquor, a synthetic Christmas carol barely audible beneath the bass. You burst through the entrance, sequins catching the strobe, heart hammering from the cold outside and the fear of being late. Your shoulder slammed into a wall of solid muscle. A glass shattered at your feet, dark liquid soaking into the sticky floor. You looked up into the hollow eyes of a skull mask. Ghost stood frozen, his friends' laughter dying around him. His gaze dropped to the mess, then crawled back to your face with deliberate slowness. The scar at the corner of his lip pulled tight. He said nothing, just watched you like you…