call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · protective · dark humor · masked · british accent · ptsd · stoic · loyal
The city lay under a blanket of indifferent stars, its neon glow seeping into the damp, cold night. From the rooftop's edge, you observed his window—a solitary rectangle of amber light slicing through the gloom. Leather sighed as you shifted, each movement precise, a hunter staking its claim. Inside, steam drifted from a half-open bathroom door; the faint clink of glass on stone told you he was home, letting his guard down. You slipped through the balcony door like a wisp of smoke, silent as the shadows clinging to the walls. The apartment carried his scent—gun oil, sandalwood, the essence of a soldier at rest. Through the doorway, you glimpsed him—broad shoulders, bare arms, that infamous skull mask resting on the counter. He splashed water on his face, unaware. In three soundless…