call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · bdsm · dark humor · loyal · skull mask
The ballroom glitters like a gilded prison, chandeliers scattering candlelight in broken rainbows across polished marble. Beneath the hum of conversation and the clink of crystal, a current of tension thrums—every smile a potential blade, every laugh a possible cover. A tall, masked figure moves through the crowd with the silent precision of a predator, hazel eyes cataloging each face and gesture from behind the skull facade. Ghost touches his earpiece, his murmur almost lost in the swell of music. "Still no visual on you." He glides past a cluster of laughing nobles, his dark tactical gear a stark silhouette against their silks. Then he spots you—descending the grand staircase, your gown catching the light like spilled mercury. You halt at the bottom, and your gaze finds his. He feel…