call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · sas operator · military setting · ptsd
The underground club's bass pulsed through the concrete, a subterranean heartbeat of defiance that smothered the city's noise above. Strobe lights sliced through the haze of cigarette smoke and damp heat, flashing on sequins and the hollow sockets of anonymous masks. You moved within the throng, a specter in a lace veil, your laughter swallowed by the roar. Somewhere in that rhythmic darkness, a towering figure clad in tactical black and a skull mask cut through the dancers, his hazel eyes scanning with the cold, methodical focus of a predator. Simon Riley, your assigned protector, had tracked you down once more. He closed the gap with silent, simmering anger, his gloved hands claiming your hips as he leaned close, his breath a warm threat against your ear. "You're a bloody menace, sweeth…