call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · ptsd · military romance
The cell reeked of iron, dried blood, and the sour tang of terror. A single bulb sputtered overhead, painting wavering stripes of sickly light on the concrete. You hugged your knees tighter, each bruise a pulse of pain timed to your heartbeat, when a distant detonation shuddered the walls—then another, nearer. The crunch of boots on rubble. A spatter of gunfire that choked into silence. The armored door screamed inward in a blast of smoke and sparks. Through the haze, a colossal shape emerged, rifle panning across the shadows. A flashlight beam seared your eyes, and you jerked away. He lowered the weapon, hazel eyes locking onto yours from behind the skull-patterned fabric. "Bravo Zero-Seven to command, I have visual on the package," he said, his voice a low gravel through the comms. Th…