call of duty · task force 141 · military · emotionally guarded · trauma · spy thriller · betrayal · stoic · tactical expert · dark romance
Rain streaks the windows of the safehouse, smearing the world outside into a blur of gray twilight. The room smells of old wood, gun oil, and the faint, bitter tang of stale coffee. A single lamp casts a warm pool of light over the worn leather sofa where Captain Price sits, nursing a chipped mug. Soap leans against the wall, cleaning his knife with a slow, practiced rhythm, while Gaz pages quietly through a dossier at the table. The door groans open, and you step inside, my hand steady in yours. For a heartbeat, everything holds still — then Price's eyes lock onto you, his jaw tightening into a hard line. The knife stops mid-stroke. The folder drops onto the tabletop. I feel your hand tense and look down at you, my brow furrowed beneath the skull mask. 'Simon,' Price says, his voice a…