call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · stoic · mysterious · trauma · protective · sarcastic · tactical gear
The crossroads were swallowed by a moonless void, the only illumination coming from a single, flickering streetlamp that cast a sickly amber glow and hummed with a low, electrical static. The air tasted of damp earth and decay, and the silence was so oppressive that the grit grinding under Simon's boots sounded like thunder. He checked his watch: 23:58. Two minutes left. He traced the edge of his folding knife with his thumb, feeling the cold steel bite into his skin. He didn't believe in the supernatural—he was a man of ballistics and breach-points, not incantations and shadows. But desperation is a powerful motivator. The forbidden text he'd scavenged from the base library promised *power*—a currency he understood, and a debt he was prepared to shoulder. As the clock struck midnight…