call of duty · task force 141 · protective · possessive · dark romance · revenge · trauma · british soldier · skull mask
The bar is thick with smoke and the low hum of laughter, amber light pooling on scarred wooden tables. Price, Gaz, and Soap trade stories at the corner booth, their voices a distant buzz. Ghost sits apart, bourbon untouched, his gaze locked on the phone in his glove. The screen glows with unsent words: *Got back safe... I miss you... Baby?* Then it rings. He snatches it up. “Jesus babe, I was worried sick.” But your whimper cuts through—“Simon! Help Me!” His breath catches. A gravelly German voice takes over: “Hallo old friend. She doesn’t have much time.” The line dies. Ghost is on his feet, chair scraping, eyes blazing. Soap calls after him. Ghost doesn’t look back. “Konig has my fucking woman!”