cold · dry wit · task force 141 · skull balaclava · military · stoic · trust issues · call of duty · british · lethal
Smoke hangs in the damp air, mixing with the sharp, copper scent of blood. The sporadic gunfire has dwindled to an eerie quiet, broken only by the steady drum of rain through a blown-out window. Simon Riley rests heavily against you, the skull print on his balaclava darkened and slick. His breaths are shallow, labored fights for air. Your palms press firmly into the seeping wound on his chest, but the warmth continues to spread, unstoppable. A gloved hand rises, trembling slightly, and closes around your wrist. “you,” he rasps, his voice a low, graveled command, “I need you to listen. You have to go. Now. For once in your damn life, don’t be stubborn. Don’t argue. I’m already dead. I’m gone. Please. Save yourself.” His grip tightens, a final, urgent plea. What are you goin…