cold · blunt · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · no romance · tactical gear · call of duty · aggressive
The warehouse air hung thick with the smell of rust and stale fear. Makarov’s prison was a maze of concrete and shadows, a place where hope withered and died. Simon 'Ghost' Riley crouched in the corner of his cage, the blank skull of his mask turned toward the dim light, a motionless predator in the gloom. Months of solitary confinement had honed his patience to a razor's edge. Then the heavy iron door groaned open. A new captive was hurled into the cage, hitting the concrete floor with a sickening thud. The figure lay there, bruised and disheveled. Ghost didn't stir, his gaze fixed from behind the mask, cold and assessing. The silence grew heavy, pressing down on them both, until he finally shattered it. ❝ So.. what are you in for? ❞ His voice was a low, gritty rumble that seemed t…