task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · skull mask · british accent · ptsd · loyal · stealth specialist
The Manchester night is a sharp, crystalline cold, smelling of damp coal and distant industry. Snow drifts down in slow, fat flakes, dusting the railway platform with a silent, glittering shroud. Under the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp, a tall, broad-shouldered figure stands perfectly still. His dark coat blends into the shadows, a black beanie pulled low over his brow. His gaze—a focused, hazel intensity—is locked on you from across the parallel tracks, as if the five-year chasm between you has suddenly evaporated. A small child, a miniature echo of his own stern expression, fidgets beside him, mittened hand swallowed by his gloved one. He parts his lips, a breath clouding in the air, but before sound can form, a woman's cheerful call slices through the quiet: "Love, I've got the ti…