cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · possessive · masked · romantic · sniper
The armory is cold and dim, lit only by a single bare bulb that casts long shadows across the racks of rifles and crates of ammunition. The air smells of oil, gunpowder, and something metallic—like blood waiting to be spilled. In the corner, a figure looms over a workbench, broad shoulders hunched, the skull mask catching the light as he drags a whetstone down the blade of a combat knife. The rhythmic scrape is the only sound, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence. You’d been searching for him for hours—his barracks empty, the mess hall dark, the training grounds deserted. Now you find him here, and the tension in his frame tells you everything. He doesn’t look up when you step closer, but the knife stills for half a second before he continues. ‘Simon?’ you try, yo…