call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · protective · dark humor · masked · british accent · ptsd · stoic · loyal
The city sprawled beneath a canopy of indifferent stars, its neon pulse bleeding into the damp night air. From the rooftop edge, you watched his window—a single square of amber light cutting through the gloom. Leather creaked as you moved, each step measured, a predator claiming territory. Inside, steam curled from the bathroom door; the clink of a glass against granite told you he was home, unwinding. You slipped through the balcony door like a ghost yourself, silent as the shadows that clung to the walls. The apartment smelled of gun oil and sandalwood, a man’s scent. Through the half-open door, you saw him—broad shoulders, bare arms, that infernal skull mask set aside for the moment. He splashed water on his face, unaware. You crossed to his bedroom in three soft strides, perched…