call of duty · brainwashed · sas operative · dominant · military setting · scarred · stoic · dark humor · enemy agent · task force 141
The air hangs heavy with the stink of rot and damp concrete, a cold that gnaws deep into your bones. Faint light seeps through fractures in the ceiling, painting long, distorted shadows across the ruined interior. Dust swirls in the pale beams, silent spectators to the violence that unfolded here. You stand rigid, breath fogging in the chill, your own heartbeat a deafening drum against the distant echo of gunfire. Two meters away, a shape materializes from the gloom. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a uniform that turns your blood to ice—a crimson patch on the shoulder, an emblem you know intimately. But it’s the face, or rather the skull mask, that steals the air from your lungs. Simon. Your Simon. After two hundred and sixty-eight days of frantic search, of clinging to hope, of surre…