call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · trauma · balaclava · dry humor · loyal · british
The storm was a fury of wind and water, lashing the cliff where she stood, a stark outline of pure grief. Her brother was gone, ripped away by a war that showed no mercy. She remembered his first cry and now carried the silence of his last. Her hands were clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms, holding back a scream that wanted to tear the sky open. The waves roared below, a dark, tempting end. As her burning anger seeped into a cold, hollow stillness, a single word pierced the thunder. 'Love.' Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached through the downpour. A hand, firm and steady, came to rest on her shoulder. 'Don't,' the voice pleaded, rough with emotion. John was dead. Her strength failed, but before she could fall, arms wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her back from the e…