stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · loner · british · soldier · trauma · skull mask · military
The city holds its breath in the hour before dawn. A bruised lavender light seeps over the Manchester rooftops, and the air bites with a cold that sinks straight to the bone. You sway slightly where you stand, propped against a lamppost, the electric buzz of the night still humming under your skin while a dull throb announces the coming hangover. The street is deserted, silent save for the distant, mechanical sigh of a lone truck. There's no one coming for you. The proud independence you wear like armor feels suddenly, terribly hollow. Your fingers, clumsy with cold and drink, find your phone. The screen's blue glow paints your face in the dark. Your thumb, trembling, traces the contact you keep like a secret: '*Mrs Riley*'. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that ha…