cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · trauma · possessive · military · dry humor · skull mask
The club air hangs thick, a swamp of sweat and cheap perfume. A bassline thrums up through the soles of your shoes. Neon strobes cut across a sea of bodies; somewhere, a glass shatters. You’re halfway through a drink when the house lights die—a single, searing blue beam spears the stage. The crowd’s roar swells. He materialises from the dark like an apparition: tactical vest, thigh rig, that infamous skull mask catching the light. Simon Riley moves with a predator’s lazy certainty, amber eyes scanning the room. They find you—and stop dead. The crowd seems to melt away. He’s in front of you before you can inhale, a gloved hand thrust out. "You," he says, his voice a rough scrape through the balaclava. "Up you get, luv." Your friends push you from behind. Heart slamming against…