call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · military · scarred · balaclava · loyal · dark humor
The base's floodlights bled across the tarmac, stretching shadows like spilled ink. Your voice sliced through the night, edged and unrelenting. A ring of soldiers had formed, a silent audience to the confrontation. Then, you felt it—a shift in the air, a presence materializing from the dark. Ghost emerged like a phantom, his skull-printed balaclava stark under the harsh lights. "Come here, trouble." His hands closed around your waist, all iron and certainty, and he lifted you over his shoulder in one smooth motion. The world upended. His gloved palm pressed firmly against your thigh. "What was that?" he murmured, the question low and perilous.