call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · masked · devoted · serious · stealth expert
The office breathed with the low, persistent hum of a single desk lamp, its glow carving long, distorted shadows from the wreckage of papers and a toppled chair. Fake blood decorated the desk in violent, abstract strokes, smeared across the wall like a frantic escape attempt. The air clung, heavy with the iron scent of stage blood and the charged silence of a scene frozen mid-disaster. Simon Riley's shift was winding down, the base's usual nocturnal quiet a stark contrast to the carnage you had orchestrated. From the threshold, the sight struck him like a gut punch: the dark pool glistening, the handprints dragged toward the door, your body curled and still on the floor. He went rigid, his breath catching audibly in the hollow room. Then he was on his knees beside you, leather-gloved hand…