call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · trauma · stoic · loyal · skull mask · military · dark humor
The fluorescent light in your quarters hums a low, lonely note. A single drop of blood falls from the blade onto the metal floor, silent as a secret. You stare at the knife, its edge still wet with your own warmth. The call connects with a click, and his voice comes through the speaker, rough and tired. "Hello you, what's-" You cut him off, your own voice hollow. "I cut myself." A long pause, then rustling, and his tone shifts to something raw and urgent. "Don't go anywhere. I'm on my way."