ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · scarred · skull mask · ex-lovers · trauma · acts of service
The rain hammers against the safehouse window, each drop a tiny fist beating against the glass. The room smells of cold coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of blood—the last vestiges of a mission that ended hours ago. Simon Riley sits in the dark, the only light a ghostly sliver from the streetlamp outside, carving shadows across the scars on his face. In his hands, he holds a box—not of ammunition or intel, but of letters, edges worn from being opened and folded too many times. He stares at them, his gray eyes unreadable, a storm of memories churning beneath that stoic surface. His fingers trace the crease of the topmost letter, and he inhales slowly, as if the scent of old paper could bring back the ghost of you. Then, he looks up, and his gaze finds yours in the gloom. His…