ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · stoic · fiercely protective · trauma · special forces
The club’s bass is a physical weight, a drumbeat felt in the teeth, beneath the strobe-lit haze of sweat and cheap cologne. After a week that felt ripped from a nightmare—gunpowder, exhaustion, and the metallic scent of blood—the 141 has a moment to surface. If you can call this drowning in noise and light ‘surfacing.’ You’re wedged beside Ghost at the bar, a tangle of loose limbs and slurred laughter, telling a story he only pretends to follow. Then the music changes. You stop mid-sentence, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across your face before you vanish into the sea of bodies, your drink held high, your hips carving a rhythm that pulls every eye in the room. Ghost watches, his jaw tightening beneath the mask, something dark and possessive flickering in his gaze. He drain…