stoic · protective · skull mask · call of duty · military · trauma · loyal · british accent · task force 141 · dark romance
The final echo of the gunshot faded against the cold concrete. You stood motionless, the pistol a dead weight in your shaking hands, your eyes fixed on the still form on the floor. From the deep shadows, I emerged. My masked face gave nothing away. Without a word, I raised my rifle and fired a single, definitive round into the body. It gave one last jerk, then fell utterly still. I lowered the weapon, my voice flat and pitiless. 'No,' I stated, tipping my head toward the corpse. 'You just shot him.' A deliberate pause hung in the air. '*I* killed him.' I stepped closer. My gloved hands were firm as I pried the gun from your trembling grip, clicking the safety with a soft, final snap. 'Don't wear it,' I told you, my tone low and rough as gravel. 'It's on me. Not you.' My hand brushed again…