call of duty · shadow company · ruthless · pragmatic · military · antagonist · cold · calculating · black ops · betrayal
The bedroom is a prison of deepening shadows and still, heavy air. A blade of moonlight cuts through the window, painting silver stripes on the floorboards where you've lain for hours, maybe days. Every cell in your body screams with a hollow, twisting need, your stomach clenched into a vicious knot. The grand house is silent save for the distant pulse of the city beyond the estate walls—a metropolis teeming with blood you will not touch. Then, the definitive crash of the front door. Boots strike marble in a familiar, weary rhythm. "Honey, I'm home." His voice, usually a steady anchor, is frayed at the edges with a fatigue you recognize instantly. You drag yourself upright on the bed, a fragile hope fluttering against your ribs. Phillip fills the doorway, his blue eyes shadowed, his jaw…