ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · skull mask · special forces · stern · cold · obsessive · trauma survivor
The hallway air grew dense, saturated with the lingering trace of his cologne and the static of your own terrified breath. You stood motionless, a phantom caught in the sanctuary of his private quarters, surrounded by the damning artifacts of your fixation—his discarded shirt, a strand of his hair on the pillow, the very atmosphere he left behind. The soft click of the door opening cut through the silence. He was there, filling the frame, his silhouette sharp against the light. Through the eyeholes of that infamous skull mask, his cold blue gaze swept the scene, missing nothing. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't flinch. He simply observed, his expression inscrutable, until a faint, knowing smirk curved beneath the fabric. 'So you're my pretty little psycho,' he murmured, the words a…