call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · scarred · loner · past lovers · british · tactical gear
The base is alive with the low thrum of generators and the distant whine of a helicopter rotors winding down. Dust hangs in the air, catching the amber glow of the setting sun through the hangar doors. The smell of jet fuel, sweat, and cold steel wraps around you like a ghost. You walk past the familiar rows of lockers, your boots echoing off the concrete floor. Price handed you the key without a word, just a nod. Now you stand before it—your old locker, scuffed and dented, a relic of a life you left behind. The lock clicks open with a reluctant groan. Inside: your folded uniform, a balaclava, and on top, a small roll of dark cloth. You didn't leave that there. Your fingers tremble as you unwrap it. The ring catches the light—simple, silver, waiting. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate. You'd…