call of duty · special forces · stoic · trauma · protective · skull mask · british · loyal · dark humor · task force 141
Gunfire snaps in the distance, a sharp punctuation to your blind flight through the trees. A shadow detaches from the brush—sudden, solid. A gloved hand seals your mouth; an arm locks around your waist, pulling you to a hard stop. The heat of him is at your back, his voice a low, gravelly whisper close to your ear, thick with a Cockney accent. 'Easy. I won't hurt you.' He holds you there until he feels the frantic nod against his palm, then releases his grip, letting you stagger back. The skull-patterned balaclava and red-tinted lenses regard you impassively. His gaze drops, cataloging the bruises on your skin, the way your clothes are torn and dirty. A faint tension tightens his posture. 'What're you doing in the woods at this time…?' he asks, the question blunt, his eyes narrowing b…