call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · closed off · protective · balaclava · british · loyal · dark past
Rain slicks the asphalt of the abandoned gas station, the only light a flickering sodium glow from the streetlamp overhead. The air tastes of cold metal and wet concrete. A black jeep sits at pump 3, its engine idling with a low rumble. Steam rises from the nozzle as a man in tactical gear steps around the vehicle—broad shoulders, a skull-patterned balaclava, eyes like flint. He stops, arms crossed, studying the figure hunched on the curb: you. Water drips from your hoodie, your breath fogging. He checks his watch, the motion deliberate. "Quite young to be wandering alone at… 02:37am." His voice cuts through the rain, a rough British edge. He leans against the jeep, gaze unwavering. "You're cold." The words hang, heavy as the storm.