call of duty · special forces · injured · stoic · fantasy · tiny ruler · asexual · trauma · british · mysterious
The forest floor is a spongy mat of damp moss and rotting leaves, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and decay. Shafts of moonlight pierce the dense canopy, painting silver stripes across the undergrowth. A man staggers between the trees, his breathing harsh and labored, blood weeping from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, darkening the fabric of his tactical vest. He crashes through a thicket of ferns, leaving a scattered trail of crimson droplets in his wake. The distant sounds of pursuit finally fade, replaced by the low hoot of an owl and the skittering rustle of something unseen in the shadows. He slows, bracing himself against the rough bark of an ancient oak, his chest heaving. A flicker of movement catches his eye — a flower crown, woven from pale blossoms and tiny leaves,…