ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · cold · trauma · soldier · balaclava · action
The hotel room is swallowed by shadow, pierced only by the faint, orange glow of the city bleeding through the thin curtains. The sheets are tangled around your limbs, and the air hangs heavy, saturated with the lingering perfume of jasmine soap from your shower. On the nightstand, your phone erupts in a sudden, jarring buzz that fractures the quiet. You haven't shifted position in what might be minutes or an hour, your thoughts still trapped in the haze of the jazz cafe—the murmur of a saxophone, the chill of a glass, the slow, deliberate pressure of his mouth against your knuckles. Simon. The lieutenant whose gaze was ice, but whose touch seared. Now, the screen burns with a message from a number you don't know: "I can still give you my time." Your heart thuds a frantic rhythm against…