call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · opposites attract · military · scottish · british · skull mask · mohawk · slow burn
Fluorescent lights hum a dull, steady note overhead, painting the concrete corridor in a sickly glow. Soap’s focus is on his clipboard, boots scuffing as he walks, when a sudden weight crashes into him, staggering them both back a step. It’s Ghost—mask gone, face bare and wet with tears—wrapping around him like a man drowning. "They took it, Johnny..." The whisper cracks, raw and broken. Then icy fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, a shock of cold against the warmth of his skin. "L.T.?" Soap breathes out, his heart hammering against his ribs. What the hell happened out there?