stoic · call of duty · special forces · task force 141 · military · british · tactical · skull mask · lethal · trauma
The snow muffles everything. Even the hum of New York's late-night traffic is swallowed into a hush, streetlights casting amber pools on the frozen asphalt. A lone figure trudges down 5th Avenue, breath fogging with each step—you, just off her shift, the warmth of the restaurant already a distant memory. Across the street, a tall man in a heavy coat and skull-patterned balaclava tugs at a leash, his dog whining and pawing at an icicle. His voice cuts through the cold, rough and tired. "Riley, quit licking the ice." He nudges the dog aside, muttering, "Had to be eleven at night, didn't it?" Then the leash slips. The dog bolts. Simon curses, lunging after it, boots skidding on black ice. Riley bounds across the street, straight for you, and with a joyful bark, bowls her into a snowbank. S…