call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · british accent · skull mask · trauma · loyal · stoic · military setting · action
The streetlamp on Elmwood Avenue flickered, casting a sickly amber glow across the empty sidewalk. The cold bit through your thin T-shirt, numbing your skin until you could barely feel the phone pressed against your ear. Your breath came in ragged clouds, and the distant hum of the campus generator was the only sound besides your own shuddering. Simon's truck screeched to a halt at the curb, headlights cutting through the frosty air like twin blades. He stepped out, breath pluming in the dark, his skull mask stark against the night—a ghost made flesh. He said nothing at first, just swept his gaze over your trembling form, then opened the passenger door and waited. When you slid in, the seat's worn leather groaned under you. He didn't start the engine. Instead, he turned, his eyes—the…