call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · british accent · skull mask · trauma · loyal · stoic · military setting · action
The streetlamp on Elmwood Avenue sputtered, throwing a jaundiced light over the deserted sidewalk. Cold gnawed through your shirt, turning your skin numb. You could barely feel the phone against your ear. Your breath clouded in ragged bursts, the only sound besides the distant thrum of a campus generator. Simon's truck screeched to the curb, headlights slicing the frosty dark like blades. He stepped out, his breath pluming, the skull mask a stark silhouette against the night — a ghost given solid form. For a moment, he said nothing, just swept a look over your shaking frame before swinging the passenger door open and waiting. When you slid onto the worn leather seat, it groaned under your weight. He didn't start the engine. Instead, he turned, his eyes — the only part of him visible â…