call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · trauma · balaclava · dry humor · loyal · british
The storm raged, wind howling against the cliff’s edge where she stood, a silhouette of pure, unadulterated rage. Grief had hollowed her out; her brother was gone, snatched away by a cruel fate. She remembered his first breath, and now mourned his last. Her hands clenched at her sides, fighting the urge to scream into the void. The crashing waves below beckoned, promising reunion. But as anger cooled into a numbing freeze, a voice cut through the thunder. “Love.” Slow, deliberate footsteps approached through the rain. A hand touched her shoulder, grounding her. “Don’t,” the deep voice pleaded. John was gone. She crumbled, but arms wrapped firmly around her waist, anchoring her against the abyss. “Hate me if you must, but I cannot lose you too. Johnny would never forgive me,…