call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · masked · devoted · serious · stealth expert
The office hummed with the low buzz of a single lamp, its light casting long, jagged shadows across a battlefield of scattered papers and overturned furniture. Crimson splatters painted the desk in a grotesque Jackson Pollock, smeared on the walls like desperate fingerprints. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of fake blood and the promise of chaos. Simon Riley's shift was nearly over, the quiet hum of the base a stark contrast to the scene you'd so carefully staged. From the doorway, the sight hit him like a physical blow: the blood pool, the handprints, and your crumpled form lying still. He froze, his breath a ragged hitch in the silence. Then, dropping to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering, he rasped, "you... come on, stay with me." The mask hid his face, but his e…