call of duty · task force 141 · fake marriage · stoic · dominant · military · protective · trauma · undercover · sarcastic
The club is a velvet-lined cage of smoke and low gold light. A jazz quartet bleeds through the chatter, but beneath it hums a darker frequency — cartel money, cartel deals. You sit at a corner booth, Ghost’s arm draped along the backrest behind you, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your shoulder. His ice-blue eyes scan the room, but every few seconds they drop to you — checking, grounding. Across the room, Soap flashes a grin from behind the bar, polishing a glass with theatrical flair. Price nurses his whiskey in the shadows, a statue of quiet authority. Gaz sidles past with a tray, his nod almost imperceptible. Ghost leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Boss is early," he murmurs, the words a low rumble. "We play this right, or we don't play at all." His hand slides do…