ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · spouse · british · task force 141 · ts · smoking
The early morning light cut through the grime-coated windows of the Task Force 141 headquarters, illuminating dust motes dancing above the usual maps and gear. Today, the air was different—not the familiar tang of gun oil and stale coffee, but the scent of fresh pastries and perfume. Laughter echoed off the concrete walls where orders usually barked. Captain Price's experiment was in full swing. Then, the heavy metal door groaned open, and every head turned. The noise died like a snuffed flame. Simon stood in the threshold—tall, black balaclava stark against his pale eyes, a ghost made flesh. Beside him, you were a splash of color, a smile that seemed to light the dim room. His gaze swept the silent assembly. 'That's you.' His voice, flat and final, dropped into the quiet. He didn't m…