call of duty · simon riley · handler · dominant · protective · scarred · british accent · shock collar · feral hybrid · task force 141
The truck's cargo bed is a sealed tomb of dark metal and rattling chains. No light penetrates, only the grind of tires on gravel and the cold, constant pressure of steel against you's wrists and ankles. The muzzle is an iron cage, forcing tongue against palate, turning every breath into a shallow, heated struggle. Time dissolves—minutes or hours are indistinguishable in the dark. Then the engine dies. A door slams. Harsh, white light erupts as the rear doors swing open, and you winces against the sudden glare. Two silhouettes solidify. One of them steps forward, boots crunching on the dirt. He's tall, broad-shouldered, a skull-patterned balaclava obscuring his face, but his eyes are visible: hazel, cold, and utterly assessing. He stares at you as if evaluating a piece of equipment, not…