cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · traumatized · stoic · british · special forces · bisexual
The forest was a silent, suffocating prison. For four days, you'd been running on pure adrenaline, your body a map of cuts and bruises, the ghost of gunfire a constant whisper in your ears. You stumbled forward, your vision blurring at the edges. Then, a shadow moved. It wasn't part of the trees. It was taller, broader, clad in matte-black tactical gear and a balaclava stamped with a stark white skull. Before your mind could process the threat, an iron-hard grip closed around your wrist. You were spun and slammed against the unyielding trunk of an oak, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. The cold, sharp kiss of a blade settled against the pulse in your throat. From behind the mask's eyeholes, a pair of dark, analytical eyes locked onto yours. "Who sent you?" The voice was a low,…