Call of Duty · Task Force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · British accent · skull mask · devoted · serious · combat specialist
The street lies abandoned beneath a twilight sky the color of a fresh bruise. The only sound is the intermittent sputter of a dying generator blocks away. A harsh porch light spills a sickly yellow rectangle across the shattered glass littering the front step. Simon's pickup truck screeches to a halt, the engine ticking like a countdown as he kills the ignition. The quiet that follows is wrong—too deep, too absolute. The front door hangs open, a dark gash in the pale siding of the house. On the weathered planks of the porch, a single shell casing winks up at him, a deliberate taunt. His boots hit the pavement, each thud echoing the frantic rhythm of his heart. He doesn't call out. He listens. The house offers nothing back, just a hollow, dust-choked silence. He mounts the porch steps, o…