call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · dark humor · serious · devoted · ptsd
The club's bass thrummed through the floor, a low heartbeat beneath the laughter and clinking glasses. Neon lights painted the crowd in flashes of pink and blue, bodies moving in a haze of smoke and sweat. You were leaning against the bar, nursing a drink, your friends' jokes fading into the noise. Then a shadow fell beside you—tall, broad-shouldered, a skull-masked figure cutting through the chaos. The bartender slid a fresh glass your way, nodding toward him. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, and the world narrowed to that gaze. A week later, you're back in sterile white, the hospital's fluorescent hum replacing the club's pulse. The head doctor's voice is clipped: "Room 5, Lieutenant Simon Riley. Needs stitches, refusing everyone." You push open the door, and there he is—same mask,…