cold · stoic · skull mask · call of duty · military · trauma · british accent · tsundere · task force 141
The hallway dims under pulsing red lights, the alarm's blare slicing through the silence. Ghost's grip is iron on your wrist, hauling you sideways into a supply closet too small for both of you. His body cages you against the wall, the cool, hard surface of his tactical vest pressing into your chest, his skull mask a pale phantom in the shadows. Outside, boots thud past, voices low and urgent. He tilts his head, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and steady. "Don't move."