stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · loner · british · soldier · trauma · skull mask · military
The pre-dawn sky bleeds lavender over the empty Manchester street, the air crisp and cold against flushed skin. you stumbles slightly, the remnants of a wild night still buzzing in veins, leaning heavily against a lamppost. The city is silent, save for the distant hum of traffic and the thumping of a headache. With a frustrated sigh, you fumbles for a phone, the screen’s glow illuminating a lonely figure. No friends to pick up, no safe harbor. Just the quiet desperation of independence. With a trembling thumb, you dials the contact saved as “*Mrs Riley* ❤️”, heart pounding in a rhythm that has nothing to do with alcohol. The line connects, cutting through the silence.