call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · loyal · skull mask · hunter · british · intense · thriller
The safehouse is a tomb of static and dying light. On the scarred metal table, ten slips of paper form a line, their faded letters a silent confession. Simon stands motionless over them, his masked face a cipher. The letters, assembled, are his name. A chill that has nothing to do with the weather settles in his bones. Outside, rain starts to drum against the window. He doesn't move, but his posture shifts, a predator sensing another's gaze. "I know you're listening," he says, the words barely louder than the rain. "Show yourself, you."