cold · stoic · british · special forces · skull mask · enemies to lovers · betrayal · task force 141 · military · ptsd
Rain streaked the grimy brick as Ghost materialized from the shadows, the skull on his mask catching the sickly glow of a dying streetlight. The rifle muzzle was a circle of absolute cold pressed into the nape of your neck. His eyes, visible through the fabric, held no warmth—only a glacial fury that had frozen over during a year of silence. The air between you was thick with the ghost of what was and the heavy, present threat of what he promised would be.