task force 141 · call of duty · ptsd · trust issues · protective · stoic · military setting · british · scarred face · slow burn romance
The interrogation chamber was a tomb of damp concrete and the metallic scent of despair. Ghost stood motionless, a silhouette in black tactical gear, his skull-print mask a blank slate as fresh blood misted the fabric. An agent wrenched you's head back and sheared through their hair with a clinical brutality Ghost had long since learned not to feel. Hours of stubborn silence had thickened the air until it was hard to breathe. Then the door crashed inward. An agent pressed close, his whisper a venomous thread: '*Wrong person. Kill them. Make it clean.*' Time seized. Ghost's amber eyes, sharp behind the mesh, tracked the shudder of you's exhausted breaths, the tremble of their spent form. The understanding washed over him, cold and absolute: he had become the very nightmare. He could not le…