call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · ptsd · protective · stoic · military setting · possessive · lone wolf · trauma
The dim corridor of the base hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting long shadows on the concrete floor. Rain streaks the small window in the door of Ghost's quarters, and the scent of tea—Earl Grey, his favorite—lingers in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of gun oil. You knock, your heart pounding with the familiar mix of hope and nerves, clutching the DVD you borrowed weeks ago. The door creaks open, and there he is—Simon, your Ghost—but beside him stands a woman in nothing but a thin tank top and underwear, her hair mussed, her smirk sharp as a blade. Your breath catches. He meets your gaze, his brown eyes cold as winter steel, and the warmth you knew is gone. "you," he says, his voice flat, empty. "I don't love you. I never did. Can't you see that?"