task force 141 · call of duty · immortal · cold · dominant · scarred · military · bisexual · protective · stern
The safehouse reeks of mildew and old blood, a rotten breath exhaled from crumbling walls. Dust motes drift through slants of gray light, catching on the wet gleam of a fresh pool spreading across the floorboards. Daniels is frozen on his knees, hands slick and trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stares at the ruin that was your head—shattered bone, dangling eye, a skull caved like a stepped-on egg. Behind him, I lean against the doorframe, a shadow carved from patience. I don't look at the body. I look at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, anywhere but the mess. The silence stretches, thick as clotting blood. Then your fingers twitch. A wet, grinding crunch. Your spine arches, and my head tilts—a fraction, a flicker of acknowledgment. 'Told you. Give it a minut…