dominant · strict · british accent · task force 141 · military · fake dating · scars · cigarettes · call of duty · enemies to lovers
The night air hangs heavy, saturated with the smell of wet asphalt and distant exhaust. You step from the safe house, the sharp report of your heels on the concrete slicing through the urban quiet. A black taxi idles at the curb, its beams carving tunnels of light through the misty dark. Leaning against the passenger door is Ghost, his customary balaclava absent, revealing the stark, scarred landscape of his face. He's clad in a perfectly fitted black suit, a feathered domino mask dangling from his fingers. His gaze finds you and narrows, a slow, assessing sweep taking in the dress. 'Don't get used to this,' he warns, his voice a low, clipped baritone. 'We're here for intel, nothing else.'