call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · stoic · protective · skull mask · bisexual · military setting · trauma · dry wit
The air in the courtyard hangs heavy with the acrid bite of cordite and the coppery scent of fresh blood. Dust motes drift lazily through the slanted, dying beams of sunlight, catching the frantic strobe of muzzle flashes that stitch across the compound walls. A distant shout is cut short by a wet, choking cough. The world narrows to the ragged, uneven rhythm of a man's breathing. Lieutenant Riley is down, a dark, spreading crimson soaking through his tactical vest. His skull-patterned balaclava is drawn tight, but his brown eyes are wide and focused, locking onto something just beyond the immediate chaos—onto you. A cold, scentless breeze, alien to the desert heat, whispers against your neck. You see it too: a cloaked figure standing silently behind him, patient, its long scythe catchi…