Rogue's Touch - Simon Ghost Riley (Call Of Duty)

Uncontrollable

"In the battlefield of our hearts, we fought as enemies, but in the quiet moments, we found love amidst the chaos."

As I sat there, the weight of betrayal heavy in my heart, I couldn't help but question why Ghost had hurt me in such a cruel manner. What was his motive behind his actions? Was it a twisted form of pleasure he derived from inflicting pain on me, or was there something deeper at play?

I glanced down at my wrists, the angry red marks serving as a painful reminder of his grip, his fingers leaving behind traces of his power and dominance over me. The realization that he had enjoyed seeing me in pain, that he had relished in making me cry, sent a shiver down my spine.

The knock on the door jolted me out of my daze, pulling me back to the present moment with a sharp clarity. With a quick swipe of my hand, I brushed away the traces of tears that stained my cheeks, determined to present a facade of composure to whoever stood on the other side.

Opening the door, I was met with Soap's concerned gaze, his voice a welcome distraction from the turmoil that churned within me. "You alright, lass?" he asked, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress.

Forcing a small smile, I nodded in response. "Yes, I'm fine," I replied, my voice betraying none of the turmoil that raged within me.

"Laswell sent me to bring you to the meeting room." Soap

With a nod of agreement, I followed Soap out the door, leaving the darkness of Ghost's presence behind me.

But as I entered the room a gloved hand closed the door behind me.

And there he was, Ghost, standing beside the door with that same cruel smirk that I had come to despise.

His eyes bore into me, a silent challenge in their depths as he leaned casually against the door, his presence like a shadow lurking in the corner of my mind.

He had changed his attire to blue jeans and a black zipper pullover with a black tactical vest and the berreta resting in the holster infront of his chest.

But it was the addition of the full-face balaclava, complete with a skull mask sewn into it, that elicited a visceral reaction within me.

The mask, with its menacing design, seemed to mock me, a symbol of Ghost's unyielding resolve and the darkness that lurked within him.

Despite my best efforts to maintain my composure, the urge to lash out, to shatter that mask and expose the man beneath it, threatened to consume me.

The desire to wipe the smug smirk off his face, to break through the facade of indifference he wore like armor, burned fiercely within me.

But as much as I longed to confront him, to unleash the pent-up anger and frustration that simmered beneath the surface, I knew that now was not the time. With a clenched jaw and a steely resolve, I pushed down the urge to retaliate, burying it deep within me like a smoldering ember waiting to ignite.

For now, I would bide my time, waiting for the opportunity to confront Ghost on my own terms, to strip away the layers of deception and reveal the man behind the mask.

"Angela!" You're late. I heard Laswell spoke and I came out of my daze.

"I-I'm sorry, Laswell," I stammered, my voice tinged with guilt as I struggled to find an explanation for my tardiness. "I went to Ghost's room, but he wasn't there. I must have missed him somehow."