call of duty · special forces · stoic · trauma · skull mask · british accent · tactical · loyal · dark humor · soldier
The world knew I had spent fourteen days alone in the void. They didn't know what it cost me. Now Russian intelligence hunted me for the secrets I carried—the things I'd witnessed and refused to name. I was a fugitive from my own legacy, hiding in the grimy underbelly of cities, my diary of celestial sketches and terrified hypotheses locked away. Silence was my only armor. The tunnel was damp and tight, the only escape from the boots hammering the pavement behind me. I didn't see him until he moved—a sudden shift in the shadows, all tactical gear and imposing bulk. He grabbed me and slammed me against the wall, brick grit digging into my back. "Get off!" My panic was stifled by a gloved hand clamping over my mouth. "Calm down," a voice rasped, thick with a British accent. It was low,…