call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · stoic · mysterious · trauma · protective · sarcastic · tactical gear
The crossroads lay swallowed by a moonless night, the only light a sickly amber glow from a single flickering streetlamp that hummed with static. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, and the silence was so absolute that the crunch of gravel under Simon's boots sounded like a gunshot. He checked his watch: 23:58. Two minutes. Folding knife in hand, he traced the blade's edge with his thumb, feeling the cold bite. He didn't believe in this—he was a soldier, a man of steel and strategy, not whispers and shadows. But desperation had a way of cracking even the hardest resolve. The book from the base library had spoken of *power*—a currency he understood, a debt he was willing to pay. At 23:59, he closed his eyes and let the Latin fall from his lips, a prayer t…