stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · possessive · dark humor · tactical · slow burn romance
The fluorescent lights of the training hall hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn mats below. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder residue, and the faint metallic tang of tension. Ghost stepped through the doorway, Soap at his side, his eyes already scanning the room with the automatic precision of a soldier. The usual sounds of sparring—thuds, grunts, commands—were drowned out by a rising commotion near the far corner. A crowd had gathered, voices overlapping in a mix of jeers and warnings. Ghost caught a glimpse of a figure, back turned, posture coiled like a spring. Two men squared off opposite them, fists raised. He nudged Soap, a dry chuckle escaping under his mask. "Haha, look at that girl—about to fight two blokes at once." Soap squinted, then we…