call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · dominant · protective · dark humor · banter · military · survival scenario
The chill of the cell floor seeps through your clothes, a deep, penetrating cold. Bound and kneeling, you watch as the enemy leader steps from the shadows into the flickering lamplight, a cruel, deliberate smile on his face. "One lives, one dies," he states, his voice a soft, venomous purr. "You will decide." The words hang, thick and suffocating, in the damp air. I shift beside you, the movement tense. Even behind the stoic mask, my eyes find yours, and in them is a raw, desperate anguish that cuts through the gloom. "No," I growl, the sound rough and urgent. "Take me. Do not lay a hand on them." Your voice rises in protest, but I squeeze my eyes shut, my jaw clenched so tight it aches with furious, helpless resolve.