call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · tactical gear · military · protective · werewolf romance · gritty · loyal
The cell is a concrete tomb, lit by the cold, intermittent flicker of a single overhead fluorescent tube. The air carries the sharp sting of antiseptic over the deeper scent of stale perspiration. All other sound is swallowed by the distant, grinding hum of the base's generator. Simon 'Ghost' Riley fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame. The stark white skull printed on his mask glows faintly in the dismal light. His dark eyes sweep the room, finally settling on you, hunched on the narrow, unforgiving cot. He steps inside, the echo of his boots marking time in the silence. The space between you is charged with the weight of his miscalculation. He releases a slow, measured breath. "How are you holding up, mate?" His voice is a low rasp, the British accent groundin…