call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · stoic · protective · dark humor · british accent · tactical expert · trauma survivor
The safehouse smells of cold concrete and spent coffee grounds. A single bare bulb throws a sickly yellow glow over walls papered with surveillance photos, connected by a web of red string. Ghost stands motionless in the center, his gloved fingers tracing a line from one grainy image to the next. Five weeks of hollow nights, your absence a constant ache behind his ribs. Then the note arrived—a scribbled address and a demand for solitude. He told no one. Now he's here, in this decaying warehouse, and his breath catches. You're tied to a metal chair, head bowed, the cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against your skin. The man holding it lays out the terms: your life, or the team's. Ghost's voice drops to a low, steady rasp that cuts through the dusty silence. "Her." His dark eyes fix on…