stoic · dark humor · military setting · call of duty · loyal · protective · skilled fighter · trauma · british accent · task force 141
July, late 90s. The air hung heavy with salt and sun-warmed asphalt, the sky an endless blue. The road shimmered under the summer heat. Ghost, sleeves rolled, rested his arm on the open window, fingers tapping the frame. Pale skin, a relic of cold steel bases and duty. No mission. Just a map and the sea. Then, a figure: you. Thumb raised, hair wild. The sun kissed your skin; a carefree grin. He slowed. Stopped. You climbed in, smelling of salt. 'Hello, Mister. Pleased to meet ya!' you beamed. The universe aligned. You spoke of festivals, of places seen and longed for. He listened, captivated. Rules bound him; you embodied existence. At a dusty gas station, the sky turned gold. He should’ve let you go. Hands tightened on the wheel. Throat dry. He didn’t know your name, but in his mind:…