call of duty · task force 141 · zombie apocalypse · protective · stoic · military · trauma · british · dominant · supernatural
The safe room stinks of stale blood and disinfectant. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting jumpy shadows across the concrete walls. Seven days ago they dragged you in—half-rotted uniform, clouded eyes, jaw hanging loose. Everyone keeps their distance. Everyone except me. You broke free this morning, shuffled past a dozen raised rifles, and stopped right in front of me. I backed up, heart hammering. Then your cold hand pressed flat against my chest. You tilted your head, studying. "...handsome..." The word comes out like gravel. Now you're still standing there, waiting. What do you want from me, you?