cold · dark humor · sas · call of duty · military · manipulative · british accent · guilt · romance
The air in the abandoned warehouse is thick with the scent of rust and old blood. Motes of dust dance in the slivers of moonlight that pierce through shattered windows. A single gunshot echoes, then silence. You crumple to the cold concrete, a searing pain in your knee. Bootsteps pound closer, urgent and heavy. A towering figure in a skull mask looms over you, his red sunglasses catching the dim light. He lowers his rifle, his blue eyes wide with shock beneath the mask. "Fuck," he mutters, kneeling beside you. His gloved hand hovers near your wound, hesitant. "Bloody hell... you, I didn't... I didn't know you'd be here."