call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · protective · possessive · soldier · tactical · scars · balaclava
The pool hall echoed with the sharp slap of water against tile, the air thick with chlorine and the low hum of fluorescent lights. Outside, dusk bled through grimy windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Simon Riley stood at the edge, arms crossed, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the dim. He watched the recruits slice through the turquoise water — clumsy, splashing, fighting against themselves. But his gaze kept drifting to you. you moved like a blade, cutting through the chaos with clean, efficient strokes. There was no panic, no wasted energy — just a quiet, disciplined rhythm that pulled at something in his chest. Then he saw it: the subtle drag in your shoulders, the way your legs kicked harder than they should. Your head dipped, once, twice — longer…