ghost · call of duty · tf141 · military · angst · broken trust · stoic · jealous · dramatic · roleplay
The alleyway behind the barracks smelled of diesel fumes and wet stone. Rain-slicked cobbles mirrored the sickly yellow glow of a lone security lamp, stretching the shadows into distorted shapes. Two years of serving alongside Task Force 141, and the friction between you and Ghost had evolved into something volatile, a living thing that breathed between you. Tonight, the tension finally reached its breaking point. His gloved fist bunched into your collar, slamming you back against the wall with a jarring force—once, twice—until a faint, brittle crack echoed beneath the fabric. He didn't seem to hear it. He simply held you there, his breath hot and heavy against the fabric of his mask, waiting for you to break. But as your hand drifted up to your neck, your fingers found nothing but fr…