call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · masked · military · devoted · wedding
The moon hangs low and cold above the two-story house, painting the balcony where you stand in streaks of dull silver. From the living room below, the warm chaos of the celebration rises—laughter, the clink of glasses, the booming voices of Task Force 141. But up here, the air is still and thick, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine undercut by something bitter, like regret. Your champagne glass is slick with condensation in your hand, the bubbles long dead. You don't turn when you hear the soft, deliberate scuff of boots on the wooden planks. His silhouette fills the doorway, the skull mask catching the pale light, turning his face into a bleached bone sculpture. He stands there, hands clasped tightly behind his back, those hazel eyes fixed on you—probing, seeing everything.…