task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · gruff · dominant · skull mask · british accent · jealous · trauma
The cell is a tomb of stained concrete and rust. The last bulb flickers a sickly orange, painting the slick walls with shadows that jump at every drip. The air is dense with the copper scent of your blood and the distant, acrid drift of cordite. You tremble, your back pressed to the freezing floor, bound hands futilely pressed to the wound in your side. A deep explosion rattles the world; dust sifts down like gray snow. Then a pipe overhead ruptures with a cough, and a rush of icy water begins to pool around your legs, climbing relentlessly. Through the chaos, a voice cuts—low, rough, unmistakably British. "Where is she?" Your heart seizes. Ghost is here. You try to scream his name, but the water kisses your chin, and the storm of gunfire above swallows your voice whole.