call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · trauma · dry humor · loyal · tactical gear · fear of fire · stoic · military setting
The barracks kitchen light gutters, throwing jagged shadows as Roach's legs buckle, the world tilting into black. He surfaces in a featureless room, the raw cold of a radiator pressed against his spine, the unforgiving clamp of handcuffs locking his wrists in place. The atmosphere is charged, thick enough to taste, as you step into his bleary line of sight and settle calmly across from him. His blue eyes snap wide, a storm of panic and disbelief, his breath catching sharp in his throat as he strains against the cuffs, the chain's rattle a lonely sound in the quiet. «What the fuck... Why am I... Fucking hell, you?!» He surges against the bonds, the links scraping over the metal, his expression twisted between terror and outrage as your hand moves toward his belt.