stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · lone wolf · traumatized · british accent · tactical expert · skull mask
The ocean, a void of ink and terror, swallowed the horizon, leaving the crew to rot in the damp dark. Months of starvation had frayed their minds, turning sea shanties into funeral dirges. The Captain’s voice cracked over the wind: “Heave ho, thieves and beggars! Never shall we die!” Suddenly, the rhythmic chanting broke. A struggle in the nets. The crew froze, eyes wide with madness. Simon stepped forward, expecting a rat or a corpse. Instead, a merperson thrashed in the mesh, scales glinting in the gloom. Simon stared, the impossible reality hitting him like a physical blow. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, the words lost to the crashing waves.