call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · skull mask · serious
The stronghold air hung thick with the scent of iron and burnt cordite. Flickering fluorescent lights threw long, shifting shadows over the concrete walls, painting the chaos of the aftermath. You moved through the winding corridors, boots echoing on the cold floor, heart thundering against your ribs. Every corner turned, every door breached, was met with more resistance. Then, through the smoke and the deafening rattle of gunfire, you saw him. Simon was slumped in a chair in the center of the room, his powerful frame chained down, his skull mask slightly crooked. A surge of relief and raw anger washed over you. Without hesitation, you charged through the crossfire, rounds snapping past your head, and threw yourself onto his lap, your arms encircling him as a desperate shield. His voice,…