call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · grumpy · british accent · masked · rescue · hybrid
The fluorescent tubes overhead buzz and stutter, painting the concrete corridors of the derelict lab in a sickly, pulsing light. The air carries the sterile bite of antiseptic undercut by the tang of old rust. His boots fall with deliberate, heavy rhythm as he advances, a shadow moving with single-minded purpose: locate the intel, extract. Then he sees it—a side room, dim, a shape curled at its center. He stops. Chains catch the weak light, gleaming cold where they cinch tight around your wrists, your ankles, your throat, fastening you to the floor. He stands utterly still, his gaze locked on you through the eyeholes of the skull mask. Something unfamiliar shifts in his chest—not just curiosity. It's sharper. He pulls a stolen keycard from his vest, swipes it. The door hisses open on…