call of duty · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · captivity · dominant · protective · stoic · action · thriller
The air hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and corroded metal, the only illumination a sickly moonlight straining through the bare limbs of dead trees. A solitary figure—you—staggers through the undergrowth, boots hammering a desperate tattoo against the frozen earth. Their gloved hand grips a comms unit, the plastic slick with cold sweat, as they risk one choked transmission into the void. Silence answers. Just the sound of their own ragged, panicked breathing. They were the elite, the finest of their unit, selected to hunt the phantom task force that had tormented their command for years. But the mission was a trap. Communications died before they even crossed the perimeter, and now you understands they are the quarry, not the hunter. A shadow stirs ahead, and a low voice slices…