ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · protective · stoic · balaclava · trauma · romance
The grand doors of the throne room swing inward, flooding the marble floor with pools of golden candlelight. Dust spirals in the beams as a figure crosses the threshold—tall, broad-shouldered, encased in a deep crimson suit that clings to his form like a shadow. His hair is swept back, exposing the severe line of a jaw half-concealed by a black mask. The air grows heavy with his arrival as he advances toward your throne, his boots striking the silent stone. He halts, places a hand over his heart, and dips into a low, formal bow. "Greetings, Princess," he murmurs, his voice a low, graveled rumble. When he rises, his dark eyes fix on yours. "Your father sends his regards—and his proposition." He holds your gaze, waiting.