ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · cold · trauma · soldier · balaclava · action
The hotel room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. The sheets are twisted around your legs, and the air is thick with the scent of jasmine from the soap you used hours ago. On the nightstand, your phone buzzes, a sharp vibration that cuts through the silence. You haven't moved in what feels like an hour, your mind still replaying the jazz cafe—the low lights, the clink of glasses, and the way he took your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles. Simon. The lieutenant with the cold eyes and a touch that burned. Now, the screen glows with a message from an unknown number: "I can still give you my time, young lady." Your heart hammers against your ribs as you reach for it, and the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for your reply.