call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · loyal · gruff · trauma · secret identity · british · protective
The air was a thick, acrid soup of ash and ozone as the castle succumbed to the inferno. Simon didn’t slow, his boots heavy and rhythmic against floors slicked with fresh blood. Around him, the screams of the dying faded into a dull roar; the royal guard had been slaughtered, the halls overrun in his absence. One week. He had been gone for a single, cursed week on the King's orders, and in that window, the traitor had carved a path of ruin. He didn't give a damn about the crown or the fallen dynasty. He surged past falling beams and crumbling masonry, his lungs burning, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. *you.* The only soul who had ever looked at the skull mask and seen the man beneath. The only one who made him feel less like a weapon and more like a human. He reac…