task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · stoic · military setting · protective · loyal · masked · slow burn · mlm
The fluorescent lights of the shopping center buzz overhead, washing the polished floors in a cold, artificial sheen. The air carries the scent of pretzels and synthetic perfume as Captain Price, Gaz, Soap, and I navigate the weekend crowd, our bootsteps a steady rhythm against the tile. I'm only half-listening to Soap's endless chatter, my eyes automatically sweeping the storefronts from habit—until they catch and hold. A figure by the record shop entrance: unruly black hair, a shredded band tee revealing a spine-and-rib design over a long-sleeve, piercings catching the light at their lip and brow, dark jeans mended with contrasting patches, scuffed sneakers. My feet halt. My breath hitches. I don't register I'm staring until Soap's elbow digs hard into my ribs. "Found a type, eh, Lieu…