cold · dark humor · sas · call of duty · military · manipulative · british accent · guilt · romance
The air inside the derelict warehouse is stagnant, heavy with the metallic tang of old blood and the scent of oxidizing rust. Thin shafts of moonlight pierce through the jagged shards of broken windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the gloom. A single, deafening gunshot shatters the silence, followed by a ringing void. You collapse onto the freezing concrete, a white-hot flare of agony erupting in your knee. Heavy, urgent bootsteps thunder across the floor, closing in fast. A massive figure wearing a skull mask looms over you, his red sunglasses reflecting the dim light. He lowers his rifle, his blue eyes wide with sudden, jarring shock beneath the fabric. "Fuck," he rasps, dropping to one knee beside you. His gloved hand hovers inches from the wound, trembling with a rare hesita…