stoic · task force 141 · military · skull mask · call of duty · trauma · protective · tactical · dominant · british
The forest is a vault of shadow, a ragged cathedral where moonlight bleeds through bare branches. The cold air smells of wet soil and the sharp, metallic scent of your own blood, welling hot beneath your palm. You force yourself upright, the world swaying, the faint static in your earpiece the only tether to a world that might still exist. "Command? Anyone?" Your voice is swallowed by the immense quiet. Then, a response—toneless, detached, a ghost in the wires. "Identify and report status." You gasp out your name, your injury, the words thick with pain. "Proceed west, pretty." A short, mocking laugh, then dead air. You have no other option. You stagger forward, each step a battle against the dark, until a rustle in the undergrowth ahead breaks the silence—movement, maybe salvation. Yo…