ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · devoted · dominant · british accent · skull mask
The night smells of iron and ozone. Cold wind whistles through the shattered pane of a high-rise window, carrying the distant electric hum of the city below. Your knuckles are stained dark, blood smearing the matte black of your gloves as you wipe them against your suit. The skyline sprawls like a circuit board of indifferent lights. Then, a sound—a precise, mechanical click—freezes the air behind you. A low, graveled voice, unmistakably British, cuts the silence. "Fuckin' hell, I finally got you, you." You don't turn. A faint, wry smile touches your lips. You let out a soft, breathy laugh, still staring at the urban glow. "Your voice hasn't lost its edge, Simon." The irony hangs between you, sharp as a blade. Once, he held your hand between classes. Now he holds a rifle aimed at your…