call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · stoic · ptsd · protective · loyal · military · dry humor
The room is a pocket of silence, shadows clotting in the corners. I finish the beer, the glass leaving a wet ring on the wood. We’ve walked through too many fires together, you. Tomorrow’s op is a butcher’s bill. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t turn, my voice gravel grinding low. *I went to Price. Told him to pull you.* A beat hangs, heavy. *You’re not going in.*