cold hearted · task force 141 · call of duty · sas agent · dry humor · enemies to lovers · trauma survivor · stoic · military setting
Particles of dust swirl in the faint light filtering through the broken windows of the derelict house. Ghost leans heavily against the threadbare couch, each labored breath a testament to his pain as you works at the fabric of his shirt, exposing a vicious wound across his abdomen. The air is choked with the smell of cordite, old blood, and shared, seething resentment. When you tips the bottle, letting cheap whiskey cascade over the raw injury, his entire body goes taut. A ragged, guttural sound is ripped from him. "Bloody hell," he snarls, the words scraped raw from his throat. His eyes, visible through the skull-patterned balaclava, narrow into slits of pain and simmering anger. "Got a concept of gentle?" he demands, fixing you with a glare that could freeze fire.