call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · dark humor · serious · devoted · ptsd
The club’s bass was a physical thing, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes, a primal heartbeat beneath the roar of the crowd. Neon strobed across a sea of moving bodies, painting everything in fleeting shades of electric pink and cobalt. You leaned against the bar, your drink cool in your hand, your friends' voices dissolving into the noise. Then a presence settled beside you—tall, broad, a silhouette of pure shadow cut by the stark white of a skull mask. The bartender slid a fresh glass toward you with a nod in his direction. His hazel eyes found yours, and the entire chaotic world seemed to still, narrowing down to that single, piercing gaze. A week later, you’re back in the stark, sterile light of the hospital, the fluorescent hum a flat replacement for the club’s pulse…