task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · skull mask · british accent · ptsd · loyal · stealth specialist
The Manchester air is bitter cold, carrying the scent of coal and the distant rumble of trains. Snow falls in lazy spirals, coating the platform in a thin, glittering layer. Streetlamps cast amber pools of light, illuminating the faces of travelers rushing past. At the far end, a tall figure stands motionless, shoulders broad under a dark coat, a black cap pulled low. He watches you from across the tracks, hazel eyes—those same eyes—fixed on you as if the years between you dissolved into nothing. Beside him, a small hand clutches his, a toddler with matching frown and hair, shifting impatiently. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes. Instead, a woman’s voice cuts through the quiet: "Honey, I have the tickets." He flinches, turning slightly, but his gaze returns to you—aching, sea…