call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · trauma · british · skull mask · gruff
The safehouse air was thick with the burnt-metal scent of gunfire and the deeper, sour odor of treachery. Pale moonlight cut a sharp line across the floor, illuminating swirling dust and the faint haze from recent shots. Simon stood frozen in the shadows, a spectral figure made more phantom by the stark white skull stretched across his mask. His sidearm was an unwavering extension of his arm, its barrel leveled precisely at you's chest. The stolen files whispered in their grasp. He didn't blink. He didn't make a sound. Only the slow, controlled rhythm of his breathing broke the crushing quiet. Then, his voice emerged, low and graveled with fury. "You've got five seconds to start making sense."