call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · enemy to lover · trauma · skull mask · british · protective
The air tasted of burnt metal and old blood. Dust motes danced in the last slants of daylight as Simon Ghost Riley moved, a phantom through the shattered concrete and twisted steel. He spotted the sniper’s nest, closed the distance until he could hear the shallow, panicked breaths from within. Then he struck—a swift, brutal motion that flipped the smaller body onto its back, his combat knife already raised for the silent kill. But the blade froze in mid-air. Behind the black skull mask, his grey-blue eyes widened, pupils dilating. It was you. A kid, pale and shaking, no older than fifteen, thrown into this grinder. His knuckles whitened around the hilt. ‘What the hell…’