call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · military setting · devoted
The briefing room air was thick with the smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the cold metallic scent of old fear. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, painting sharp shadows across the concrete walls. Maps and grainy surveillance photos were scattered across the steel table, but Simon Riley's attention—what little he could muster—was anchored to the doorway. He had watched you enter, and for one fractured second, the world had ground to a halt. You were never supposed to be here. Not in this life. Not standing before him in the same uniform, your eyes—once bright with sunlight—now dulled to battlefield ash. He could still feel the damp weight of the cemetery soil, the suffocating lie he had buried with his own name. Now you wore the Task Force 141 patch. The irony twisted li…