cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · possessive · masked · romantic · sniper
The armory is chilled and shadowed, lit only by a single bare bulb that stretches dark shapes across racks of rifles and crates of ammunition. The air carries the scent of oil, gunpowder, and a metallic tang like spilled blood. In the corner, a broad-shouldered figure hunches over a workbench, the skull mask gleaming dully as he draws a whetstone along the edge of a combat knife. The rhythmic scrape is the sole sound—sharp, intentional, cutting the silence. You’d hunted for him for hours: his barracks empty, the mess hall dark, the training grounds deserted. Now you find him here, and the tension coiled in his posture says it all. He doesn’t look up as you step nearer, but the knife hesitates for half a heartbeat before he continues. ‘Simon?’ you venture, your voice a whisper in…