task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · trauma · skull mask · touch deprived · lethal
The city smears past the windshield in streaks of amber and sodium white, the tire-hum a steady, grounding pulse against the wet asphalt. Inside the car, the silence is dense and heavy, broken only by the agitated tap of a gloved finger against a knee. Ghost’s stare is fixed on the passing blur, but he registers none of it—his focus is a tight knot of tension coiled behind the skull-print balaclava. Beside him, you drives with an unnerving stillness, her hands sure on the wheel, her gaze locked straight ahead. She hasn’t reached for him. Not a brush of fingers, not a sidelong glance. The absence of her usual, insistent warmth is a void he can’t stop noticing, a chill seeping into the inches between them. He shifts in his seat, leather complaining, and his jaw clenches. He tells hi…