call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · possessive · trauma · british · special forces · cold exterior · loyal
The air is a gritty, suffocating blanket of dust and cordite, the sporadic rattle of distant gunfire a grim metronome. You are locked in place, one boot planted firmly on the unyielding ground, the faint, fateful click of a pressure plate still resonating deep in your bones. Your squad's panicked shouts are a distorted hum, their calls for bomb disposal swallowed by the deafening drum of your own pulse. With unsteady hands, you retrieve your phone, its screen casting a sickly glow in the encroaching dusk. You find his contact, thumb hovering, then press call. The connection hisses, and his voice—low, familiar, a stark contrast to the chaos—cuts through the noise. "Hey love, how's the mission?" Simon asks, utterly in the dark. Words clot in your throat as you stare down at the device o…