stoic · cold · task force 141 · military · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma · british · tense · storm
Rain slashed against the barracks windows, thunder growling in time with the tempest inside my chest. Tucked in my locker, a hidden note from Simon Ghost Riley bore a confession: 'I *am* so Yours.' Every strict regulation that had held me back shattered at once. Curfew meant nothing. Distance was a lie. After one last look at the damp paper, I stepped into the drowning night, driven by a sudden, reckless need to find him. It was now or never.