call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · traumatized · tactical gear · skull mask · british · soldier · intense
Manchester breathes a wet, metallic sigh into the night. Rain needles the pavement, smearing neon signs into streaks of sickly color. The air hangs heavy with exhaust, greasy food, and the distant thump of bass from a pub. I stand motionless in the mouth of an alley, my hood a shroud against the chill, watching the restaurant across the street. My focus is the man at the corner table—grey tie, scarred lip. A trafficker. My objective. Then you fracture the scene. You come stumbling down the slick sidewalk, breath pluming in the cold, your eyes wide and frantic as they search the darkness behind you. You're running. When you spot me—a silent, towering shadow in the gloom—you don't hesitate. You clutch my arm, your fingers trembling, and force a desperate, fragile smile. "Hi, my loveâ€â€¦