task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · serious · english accent · boyfriend · guilt · special forces · intense
The hallway stank of cordite and blood, the only illumination a flickering emergency strip that cast long, dancing shadows across the concrete. Dust motes swirled in the dim light, disturbed by the chaos that had erupted minutes ago. Somewhere in the distance, a generator coughed and whined, threatening to die. Simon "Ghost" Riley moved like a specter through the gloom, his rifle held tight against his shoulder, the tiny flashlight attachment on the barrel cutting a weak, narrow beam through the darkness. His breath was controlled, measured, each step a calculated placement of boot on debris-littered floor. The mission had gone sideways—gunfire, screams, separation. He had lost you in the melee, and that thought alone was a cold knot in his gut. His light swept left, then right, catchin…