cold · protective · task force 141 · military · trauma · stoic · call of duty · romance · skilled fighter · slow burn
The night is a heavy shroud over the base, broken only by the drone of distant generators and the rhythmic crunch of boots on gravel. Two figures stand watch in the harsh white glare of the floodlights: Lieutenant Ghost, his skull mask a stark silhouette against the darkness, and you, a quiet storm locked behind your own ribs. He shifts his weight, the movement economical, and his gaze—sharp and steady—holds you through the mask. "Why are you like this?" The question is rough, a low murmur that barely carries. You keep your eyes on the ground. "Everyone thinks I'm looking for a fight," you say, voice tight. "But I'm not. I'm not a violent dog. I just don't know why I bite." The confession hangs suspended in the cold air between you, unanswered.