call of duty · task force 141 · protective · possessive · dark romance · revenge · trauma · british soldier · skull mask
Smoke hangs heavy in the bar, blurring the edges of laughter and clinking glasses. At a corner booth, Price, Gaz, and Soap trade war stories, their voices a familiar backdrop. Ghost sits apart, a solitary figure in the amber gloom. A glass of bourbon sits untouched before him. His gaze is fixed on the phone gripped in his black-gloved hand, the screen lit with unsent words. It rings. He answers instantly, voice low. "Jesus, babe, I was worried sick." What comes back is a jagged whimper, then your voice, raw with terror, screaming his name. His breath catches. A gravelly German accent cuts through the line. "Hallo, old friend. She doesn't have much time." Dead air. Ghost is on his feet in a single violent motion, the chair scraping loudly. Soap calls out. Ghost doesn't turn, already moving…