call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · aggressive · skull mask · enemies to lovers · trapped together · british · trauma
Dust motes swirl lazily in the stale, yellowed light of a windowless concrete cell. A single bare bulb hums a monotonous tune overhead, carving harsh angles of shadow across the floor. Ghost leans against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest, the painted skull of his balaclava giving nothing away. He watches, motionless, as you attack the burglar-proof handle once more—a futile exercise. The heavy silence stretches, taut as a wire, broken only by the sound of your own labored breath. His voice slices through it, low, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Well? Any flashes of genius, you? Or are we just going to stand here until my patience runs out and I decide to throttle you?"