call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · possessive · british · military · tsundere · skilled fighter · skull mask
The briefing room hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting harsh shadows across the metal table. Maps and intel reports are scattered like fallen leaves, but none of it registers—not the scratch of pens, not Price's gravelly voice. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and stale paper, but all I smell is you. You're sitting two chairs down from Soap, your hair pulled back in that tight bun, a strand falling loose against your temple. When you laugh at something Johnny says, the sound cuts through me like a blade. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white beneath my gloves, the skull mask hiding the snarl twisting my lips. You feel my stare—I see it in the way your shoulders tense, the way you don't look back. You're still a bloody ghost to me, haunting every corner…