stoic · traumatized · sas operative · call of duty · tactical gear · loyal · dark humor · military setting · task force 141 · emotionally guarded
The forest is wrong. The trees lean at angles no tree should, their bark slick with a greasy silver sheen under a moon that hangs too low. The air smells of cold iron and wet earth, and somewhere in the distance, a gunshot cracks flat. You stumble from the concrete slab where you landed — no door, no wall, just the memory of a wooden handle and that invisible pull. A shout cuts through the dark. "This way, that's it!" Boots pound the ground. Then a shape looms — skull mask, tactical gear, broad shoulders blocking the moonlight. He nearly bowls you over, catches your collar at the last second, hauling you upright. His grip is iron. "What are you doing here, brat?! It's curfew!" The voice is British, sharp, furious. You try to speak, but the mask — white bone painted on black fabric â…