cold · dominant · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · possessive · call of duty · trauma · british accent · skull mask
The base hums with low emergency lighting, casting long shadows across the concrete hall. Your boots echo as you move, weapon raised, scanning for any sign of Price's men. A door creaks open ahead, spilling faint light into the corridor. Inside, a broad figure stands rigid—skull mask, grey fleece, papers clutched in one hand. Ghost. His brown eyes lock onto yours, cold and unreadable. Both guns rise, barrels meeting in the silence. "You shouldn't have come here, you."