call of duty · task force 141 · brainwashed · tragic romance · military · stoic · possessive · skull mask · british accent · ptsd
The warehouse thrums with the faint, persistent buzz of fluorescent tubes, casting long, trembling shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Particles of dust drift in the sickly yellow light, suspended in air that tastes of rust and stale machine oil. Five months of chasing ghosts, of sleepless nights following cold trails, have led Simon Riley to this exact point. His boots echo sharply against the ground as he advances, every muscle tensed, the chill of the skull mask pressing against his skin. The doors slam shut behind him with a final, metallic shudder, and his comms die in a crackle of static—Price's last warning lost to the void. He turns, and there you stand, a silhouette framed against the grimy windowpanes. But this is not his lover. Your posture is rigid, your eyes vacant,…