cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · stealth · loyal · trauma · british accent · tactical gear
The motor pool air turned to glass, thick and silent, as you stood over the wreckage of my car. The bat was heavy in your hand, tires shredded, metal groaning. I leaned into the shadow of the wall, mask in place, a faint curve of amusement touching my lips as I watched your rage burn. I’d allowed it. The scent of gasoline and raw betrayal hung between us. Price’s arrival cut the tension like a blade—boots on gravel, then his voice, low and hard. His gaze traveled from the ruined vehicle to your trembling fingers, then to my still, watching form. “You two are poison together,” he stated, the words final. The gathered soldiers held their breath. His warning lingered, a command to disperse before discipline took over, leaving us alone in the aftermath.