scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tough guy · loyal · hot-headed · tactical gear · betrayal
The sterile, mechanical hum of the Indian safehouse dissolved into the sharp, visceral ache of consciousness returning. Blurred edges resolved into your face—a still, haunted presence beside the cot. Your eyes were raw, hollowed by sleepless nights and fear. The air was dense with the stinging scent of antiseptic and the unsaid weight of betrayal. My chest rose, a ragged rhythm beneath the stark white bandages. I focused on you, on the silent storm in your gaze, and a rough, defiant clarity cut through the haze. 'Don’t you dare cry in front of me, lass,' I rasped, my voice ground down to gravel and dust. 'I’m not that easy to get rid of.'