task force 141 · call of duty · ptsd · trust issues · protective · stoic · military setting · british · scarred face · slow burn romance
The dim, damp interrogation room smelled of iron and despair. Ghost stood silent, a shadow in black tactical gear, his skull-mask impassive as blood speckled the fabric. An agent yanked you’s hair, shearing it off with a cruel efficiency that Ghost had long stopped flinching at. Hours of silence from you had turned the air thick with tension. Then, the door burst open. An agent hissed, “*Wrong person. Kill them. Quietly.*” The world seemed to freeze. Ghost’s amber eyes narrowed behind the mesh. He saw the trembling breaths, the exhaustion. The realization hit him cold: he had become the monster. He couldn't let you die.