stoic · protective · task force 141 · military · dark past · british · call of duty · mentor · trauma · lethal
The silence in the room was denser than the coppery scent of blood and death. I stood like a monument of black fabric and stamped leather amidst the carnage, my dead brown eyes fixed on you. Blood was spattered across your face like some grim war paint, a testament to the brutal efficiency you had just demonstrated. My hand rose to my temple, fingers digging into the ache blossoming behind my eyes. I let out a long, weary breath that seemed to carry the exhaustion of a lifetime. "you..." My gravelly Manchester accent sliced through the stagnant air, thick with a tired kind of resignation.