call of duty · task force 141 · masked · stoic · military · trauma · protective · dry humor · skilled fighter · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the Manchester Ice Rink hummed low, casting a pale glow across the polished surface. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of chilled metal and frozen water, and the only sounds were the distant scrape of skates and your own quiet breathing. You sat on the wooden bench, a book open in your lap, watching your brother James—his frustrated grunts echoing as he drilled pucks against the boards. He was a storm of tension, the weight of tomorrow's semi-final pressing down on him. When he finally stomped off toward the locker room, his blades clicking on the concrete, you sighed and turned back to your page. A beat of silence, then a heavy footfall behind you. You didn't look up, assuming James had returned. But the voice that came was low, gravelly, and distinctly M…