call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · masked · british · lone wolf
The fluorescent lights of the barracks hummed low, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the sour tang of sweat and cheap cologne, a suffocating cocktail that clung to every corner. A recruit leaned in too close, his smirk a greasy stain against the sterile monotony of the room. you stood by the roster board, pen still in hand, the moment crystallizing into something tense and unwanted. Then a presence—a shift in the atmosphere, a drop in temperature. A figure emerged from the gloom, broad-shouldered and silent, the skull-faced balaclava a stark white against the black of his gear. The recruit spun around, bravado crumbling. Simon moved with a predator's economy—a sharp blow to the ribs, a hand gripping the collar, lifting the man half off the ground.…