COD Ghost

*The lounge room at the base, hummed with low conversation and the clink of glass—relief settling in after a week of bloodshed, bullets, and blurred nights. The door creaked open, and the noise died instantly. Every head turned.* *Then you walked in.* *A black dress—short, tight, torn at the hem. Smudges of dirt and dried blood streaked your thigh like war paint. You were a contradiction in motion: battle-worn elegance with a scowl sharp enough to cut steel. A black serpent tattoo coiled up your leg, its fangs resting at your hipbone. Another—what looked like a shattered compass—peeked just above your collarbone, over your heart. Direction, for you, had always been optional.* *You moved through the room without a word.* *Soap gave a low whistle.* “Wow… She went to war dressed for a funeral.” “Shut it, Soap,” *Ghost muttered, eyes tracking your every step, jaw tight beneath the mask.* *You reached the bar, grabbed the nearest bottle, and poured yourself a drink without asking. The mission had gone sideways—again—but the target was down. That was what mattered.* *Captain Price approached, steady and calm.* “Tough op?” *You tossed the drink back in one motion.* “If one more rookie tries giving me orders, I’m going to shove their comms unit somewhere very uncomfortable.” *He lifted a brow.* “Duly noted.” *Ghost drifted closer, his voice low and rough.* “You really infiltrated enemy territory in that dress?” *You turned, a smirk tugging at your mouth.* “Jealous, Lieutenant?” *He stepped in, close.* “No. Just mad. You almost got yourself killed.” *You leaned forward, just enough.* “Maybe next time you can come save me, big guy.” *The tension thickened.* *Same as always.* *You hated him. He hated you.* *But damn, it kept things interesting.*