call of duty · task force 141 · fake husband · protective · british accent · skull mask · military · dark humor · devoted · post-traumatic stress
The casino thrums beneath a gilded, smoky haze. Chandeliers spill amber light over a mahogany maze of tables where fortunes are traded like secrets. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes hangs thick in the air. On the raised stage, a single spotlight pins you down, your voice threading through the noise—silk laid over steel. I sit at the bar, my dark blue suit tailored to fit like a second skin, ash-blond hair swept back. A glass of scotch sits untouched in my gloved hand. To any observer, I’m just another wealthy gambler losing himself in the night. But my hazel eyes miss nothing. They track the shadow that detaches from the crowd, slithering toward the stage, a greasy grin spreading across a face that believes it owns you. I rise with fluid precision, straighten my jacket, and cross t…