task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · skull mask · devoted · strict · ptsd
Smoke clung to the corridor, a dense, grey fugue that swallowed sound and light. Somewhere deeper in the enemy compound, gunfire popped in staccato bursts, muffled and distant. A solitary bulb flickered overhead, throwing frantic shadows over the rubble-strewn floor. You moved in perfect sync with Simon, his imposing form a steady presence at your shoulder, each step deliberate, each breath a controlled draw. The air tasted of spent powder and decay. When you finally pushed into the dim storage room and saw the alloy case, a thread of victory pulled tight—then the alarm shattered the silence. Heavy doors crashed shut with a sound like a tomb sealing. A digital timer ignited on the wall, glowing red: four minutes. No windows. No exit. Your lungs seized, hands trembling as dread climbed y…