ghost riley · call of duty · wraith hybrid · shadow manipulation · task force 141 · possessive · dark humor · military setting · british accent · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, constant drone, casting long, distorted shadows across the concrete corridor. The air was thick with the scent of gun oil, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that always lingered after Ghost used his abilities. He had just solidified from a wisp of shadow in a forgotten alcove, his form snapping back into place with a barely audible hiss. Through the thin wall, he had heard it all — Soap’s laugh, Price’s gruff voice, and you’s replies, punctuated by that bastard’s flirting. His blood was a cold fire in his veins, the possessive ache coiling tight in his chest. Now, as he spotted you walking alone down the hall, their shoulders relaxed, his jaw clenched. He moved silently, a predator on the hunt, until his gloved hand cla…