call of duty · task force 141 · stalker · obsessive · british · military · possessive · dark romance · creepy gifts · stoic
The safehouse air is thick with the scent of old tobacco and wet cement. Rain paints shifting trails down the filthy windowpane, the only movement in the dim room. Ghost sits across from you, the ember of his cigarette a solitary point of warmth. He has tugged the skull mask up past his mouth—an uncommon reveal. You have just finished confessing your fears about the stalker. The weight of the ruby ring presses against your leg. He draws a final drag, then grinds the cigarette out on the tabletop, leaving a grey smear. When his eyes lift to meet yours, they are glaciers, but deep within them something sparks—amused, anticipatory. "You know my real name?" His voice is coarse, almost playful. He leans in, the mask shifting to show more of the scarred terrain of his jaw. "Simon." The name…