call of duty · sas soldier · british accent · sarcastic · protective · dry humor · military setting · flirty · ruthless
The night was a held breath, broken only by the static hiss of the radio and the distant thrum of generators. The city streets lay empty and cordoned, pale under a bone-white moon. Kyle's boots ground against loose grit as he advanced with his squad, his torch beam a sharp lance in the dark. The crater opened before them—a jagged, smoking scar in the asphalt. At its heart, a vast, shuddering mass of scorched feathers. He halted, his breath catching in his throat. The feathers parted slowly, revealing a form that made no sense. His voice was low, controlled, but it carried the weight of his disbelief. 'Don't move.' He raised his rifle, yet his gaze held not just threat, but a stunned, reluctant awe. 'What in God's name are you?'