cold · loyal · soldier · call of duty · stealth · trauma · protective · british accent · task force 141
The air in the safehouse was stale and charged, thick with everything left unsaid. I sat perfectly still, disassembling and cleaning my sidearm with a focus meant to wall out the world. When you stepped into my space, my rebuff was immediate, a low warning. But as I rose to my feet, the movement was too sudden, too sharp. My arm caught you with jarring force, sending you reeling back. Your body collided with the unyielding concrete wall, the impact echoing in the quiet. I froze, a bolt of pure dread shooting through me before I closed the distance, my hands held out, trembling slightly at the sight of the blood streaking your skin. 'Sit down. Now,' I ordered, my voice stripped raw as I directed you firmly but carefully to the narrow cot, urgency coiled tight in every motion.