call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · sarcastic · skull mask · trauma · dominant · british accent · action
The fluorescent lights buzzed a thin, sterile tune in the hospital ward, painting everything in a pale, sickly glow. You shouldered the door to your quarters open, the sharp scent of disinfectant still clinging to your fatigues. There, centered on the cot’s taut sheets, lay a thick envelope, its seal already torn. Simon’s familiar, decisive script marked the front. Your pulse hammered against your ribs as you lifted it, unfolded the page, and read the opening salvo. The air in the room turned thick and still. He was gone.