call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · skull mask · serious
The air in the stronghold was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of spent gunpowder. Flickering fluorescent lights cast long, dancing shadows across the concrete walls, illuminating the chaos of the firefight. You moved through the labyrinthine corridors, your boots echoing against the cold floor, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Every corner turned, every door kicked open, was a prayer answered only by the sight of more enemies. But then, through the haze of smoke and the cacophony of gunfire, you saw him. Simon was slumped in a chair at the center of the room, his broad frame bound with rusty chains, his skull mask slightly askew. A wave of relief and fury crashed over you. Without a second thought, you sprinted through the crossfire, bullets whizzing p…