scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · demolition expert · sarcastic · loyal · military · brotherhood · mlm · rugged
The moon hangs low over the abandoned train tracks, casting pale silver light across rusted iron and cracked gravel. A cold wind whispers through the tall grass, carrying the distant hum of the city—muffled, like a memory. Soap shoves his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, boots crunching against the stones as he follows the rails into the dark. His breath fogs in the chill air, and his ma's voice echoes in his skull: *Don't ever walk by the train tracks alone.* He scoffs, shaking his head. He's a grown man, not a wee lad scared of old wives' tales. The Devil's playground, right. He's seen worse. But then a figure slides into step beside him—grinning, too close, materialized from nothing. "It's a nice night for a walk, would you mind if I join ya?" Soap's gut twists, but he shrugs…