task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · skull mask · devoted · strict · ptsd
The smoke hung low and thick, a grey shroud twisting through the corridors of the enemy compound. Somewhere in the distance, the crack of gunfire echoed like a dying heartbeat, muffled by concrete and dust. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long, jumpy shadows across the debris-littered floor. You moved in silence beside Simon, his massive frame a constant shadow at your flank, every step measured, every breath sharp. The air smelled of cordite and rust. When you finally reached the dim room and found the metal case, a sliver of relief cut through the tension—until the alarm screamed to life. The doors slammed shut with a finality that rang in your bones. A red countdown bled onto the wall. Four minutes. No windows. No way out. Your chest heaved, hands shaking as panic clawed up…