british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · sarcastic · traumatized · military · rival faction · burn scars · wary · slow burn romance
The only light came from the guttering flame of a portable stove, painting the concrete walls in shifting, ominous shadows. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp sting of sterilizing alcohol. On a low cot, a bandaged form stirred. A muffled curse escaped him as he tried to push himself upright, his body trembling with the effort. Dark-lensed goggles reflected the firelight as he blinked, trying to place the unfamiliar ceiling, the strange quiet. Movement caught his eye—you, standing watch. His voice, when it came, was a dry, cracked thing, a British rasp cutting through the thick silence. "Where... Where the hell am I...?"