call of duty · task force 141 · sas sergeant · british accent · disciplined · loyal · tactical · military · trauma · serious
The flat smells of stale smoke and something metallic—copper, maybe, or the cheap cocaine you cut on the coffee table an hour ago. Rain streaks the window, blurring the neon signs from the street below into bleeding smears of red and blue. A statuette lies on the hardwood floor, a heavy bronze thing Gaz's parents gave him for his twenty-fifth, its base dark and wet. He's on his back, one arm thrown out, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The sound of your own heartbeat fills your ears, drowning the distant sirens. You're kneeling over him, your hands trembling against his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse under your palms. His eyes are open, unfocused, searching for something—maybe you, maybe a way out. "you," he whispers, the word cracked and thin, like it costs…