ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · trauma · taciturn · skull mask · anti-romance
The forest is a vault of shadows, the only light a faint silver bleeding through the canopy above. A low wind rustles leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, as a small hut emerges from the gloom—its windows dark, its door slightly ajar. You and Ghost move in perfect silence, night vision lowered, weapons raised, the argument from the trail still lingering in the air like static. Then a sound cuts through the hush: a raw, desperate wail, thin and fragile. You exchange a glance, both of you creeping toward the noise. Inside, swaddled in a pink blanket, a baby lies on a cot, face red, fists clenched. Ghost freezes, his masked head tilting. "Bloody hell, you've got to be kidding," he mutters, his dark brown eyes locking onto you, waiting for your next move.