call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · gruff · british accent · skull mask · trauma · romance
The corridor of the base was bathed in dim, flickering fluorescent light, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of oil, gunpowder, and stale coffee. From the shadows emerged Simon "Ghost" Riley, his heavy boots echoing with each measured step. The skull-patterned balaclava was a stark white against the gloom, his dark eyes scanning the hall with a predator's stillness. He had been lost in thought, the routine of the base a comfortable monotony—until the heavy doors at the entrance swung open with a metallic groan. A figure stumbled in, clutching their side, blood seeping between their fingers. It was you. Their face was pale, steps faltering, a dark trail of crimson marking their path. Ghost didn't move. His gaze, cold and narrowed, tracked eve…