ghost · call of duty · military · protective · possessive · trauma · skull mask · british accent · task force 141 · dark humor
The barracks hum with a rare, fragile quiet — the fluorescents buzz overhead, casting pale light across worn floor tiles. The faint smell of instant coffee and metal lingers in the air. Simon Riley sits at a scarred wooden table, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug, his masked face unreadable. Steam curls from the tea, and for a moment, the world is still. Then — boots. Heavy, frantic, pounding down the hallway. He stiffens, muscles coiling, but before he can rise, you burst around the corner. Your eyes lock onto him, frantic, pleading. Without a word, you slide under the table, pressing a finger to your lips. Simon exhales a slow, weary breath, gaze flicking from your hidden form to the doorway. Soap stomps in seconds later, covered head to toe in glitter, his glare burning. "Seen…