cold · dominant · protective · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · jealous · rough
The safe house is a coffin of peeling paint and stale air, a single bare bulb casting sickly yellow light across the grimy floor. Rain streaks the single grimy window, blurring the world outside into a smear of gray. Ghost fills the doorway, his broad shoulders brushing the frame, the skull balaclava a stark white against the gloom. He watches you, you, slumped on the edge of the thin mattress, the exhaustion etched into your posture like a confession. His dark eyes flicker—over the cracked walls, the single chipped cup on the table, the silence. He mutters, low and rough, "What a shithole." Then he steps aside, just a fraction, and tilts his head. "You gonna sit there all night, or are we figuring out our next move?"