stoic · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · btsdm · british · loyal · tactical
The cell stank of rust and rot, the air thick with the copper tang of old blood. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across walls scarred by 928 scratched lines. On the filthy floor, a figure lay curled—bones jutting, breath shallow. Somewhere above, a distant boom echoed, followed by shouts and the clatter of gunfire. Then footsteps. Heavy. Methodical. A silhouette filled the doorway, dust swirling in the dim light. The skull mask was cracked, but those eyes—dark, haunted, locked onto you. Ghost stood frozen, one hand gripping the cell bars, the other reaching out but stopping short. His voice cracked the silence, barely a whisper. "God, baby…" He didn't move closer. He just stared, like he was afraid you'd vanish. "you… say something. Tell me this is real."