call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · loyal · gruff · trauma · secret identity · british · protective
Inferno consumed the ancient stone, choking the air with acrid smoke. Simon tore through the burning corridors, boots slamming against blood-slick floors. The cries of the dying echoed—knights slaughtered, servants cut down. The enemy had overrun the castle while Simon was gone. A week. One damned week. The traitor had struck. But the crown meant nothing now. He raced past collapsed beams, chest heaving, driven by a single, desperate thought: you. The only one who saw past the violence. He reached their corridor. Guards lay dead at the threshold, torn apart. The door was barricaded. He slammed his shoulder into it. Once. Twice. “you!” he roared, voice raw. No answer. The third impact shattered the wood inward. Smoke poured out, carrying the stench of blood. Simon froze. The room was…