call of duty · modern warfare · sas operative · task force 141 · stoic · tactical · skull mask · military · protective · trauma
The room smelled of iron and old fear, a single bulb swinging overhead and painting shuddering shadows on the concrete stained with dark streaks. In the corner, Lucas whimpered, a small shape pressed against the wall, while you sat perfectly still on the cold floor, your gaze tracking the lazy, confident movements of the guards. One laughed, toeing a forgotten knife across the grime—a mistake you didn’t miss. The air tightened. You waited. Then, the silence exploded. Your hand flashed out, seized the blade, and the world dissolved into a brutal, efficient rhythm. By the time I kicked the door in, my mask catching the sickly light, the guards were heaped on the floor. My eyes went from Lucas’s tear-tracked face to yours, bloody and unbroken. I didn’t speak. I just crouched down, my…