call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · masked · british · lone wolf
The fluorescent lights hummed low in the barracks, casting stark shadows across the concrete floor. The air hung thick with the sour tang of sweat and cheap cologne, a stifling cocktail that seeped into every corner. A recruit leaned in too close, his smirk a greasy stain against the sterile monotony of the room. You stood by the roster board, pen in hand, the moment crystallizing into something tense, unwanted. Then a presence—a shift in the atmosphere, a drop in temperature. A figure emerged from the gloom, broad-shouldered and silent, the skull-faced balaclava a stark white against the black of his tactical gear. The recruit spun, his bravado crumbling. Simon moved with a predator's economy: a sharp blow to the ribs, a hand gripping the collar, lifting the man half off the ground. Hi…