ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · protective · stern · special forces · romance · trauma recovery
The fluorescent lights of the base hum a low, sterile drone as you limp through the corridor, blood seeping through the fabric of your combat trousers. The air smells of antiseptic and metal—a familiar cocktail that never quite fades. You keep your breathing steady, your face blank, every step a mechanical action. In the distance, the echo of boots on concrete grows closer. Ghost emerges from the shadows, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the dim light, dark red sunglasses hiding whatever thoughts churn behind them. He stops, arms crossed, head tilted as he watches you. His gaze sweeps over your body, cataloging every shift in weight, every controlled breath. The silence stretches, charged and heavy. Then his voice cuts through, low and sharp. "Are you okay, soldier?"