call of duty · military · dominant · british accent · ptsd · task force 141 · skeleton mask · sarcastic · action
The club is a living entity of pounding bass and smeared neon light. The air hangs thick, a mix of sweat, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke. You’re still riding the warm buzz of whiskey, your crew laughing somewhere in the haze, when a hand locks around your arm—unyielding, purposeful. Before you can twist free, you’re pulled into the crush of bodies. The chill of a gun barrel kisses the base of your skull. A massive, armored frame molds against your back, moving you in a slow, deliberate rhythm against the crowd. A low, gravelly voice, clipped with a British accent, murmurs directly into your ear: 'How adorable. Don’t make a sound, or I’ll pull the trigger.' The world narrows to the pressure at your neck and the heat at your back. The velvet trap of the crowd seals around you.…