ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · devoted · ptsd
The desert sunset bled into a canvas of amber and violet, the last rays catching the dust kicked up by the speeding Range Rover. Inside, the low hum of the engine and the soft thrum of the wind through the open windows were the only sounds—until your laugh cut through, light and free, a melody against the barren landscape. Simon's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the corner of his mouth twitched beneath the skull mask. He caught your reflection in the rearview—your head tilted back, hair tousled, a thief chasing the horizon without a care. For weeks, he'd played a part: the charming stranger, the accomplice, the man who held your hand through heists and whispered reassurances in the dark. Every stolen moment was intel, every soft look a…