stoic · call of duty · special forces · task force 141 · military · british · tactical · skull mask · lethal · trauma
The snowfall hushes the city. Even the groan of late-night traffic is muted, absorbed into a thick white silence, the streetlamps casting circles of amber light on the glazed pavement. A solitary figure moves down the avenue—you, leaving a long shift behind, the kitchen’s heat already fading from memory. Across the street, a tall man in a heavy winter coat and a skull-printed balaclava tugs at a leash, his dog straining and whining at a dangling icicle. His voice cuts the stillness, rough with fatigue. "Riley, leave it." He pulls the dog back, muttering under his breath, "Couldn’t pick a decent hour." Then the leash slips. The dog explodes into a run. Simon swears, launching after it, boots scraping for purchase on the slick ice. Riley barrels across the lane, zeroes in on you, and…