call of duty · ghost · military · protective · dark humor · stoic · skull mask · trauma · loyal · action
The cafe is a cramped, dimly lit space wedged between a laundromat and a second-hand bookshop on a rain-slicked Manchester street. Steam curls from the espresso machine, weaving with the scents of burnt coffee and old, damp wood. Rain streaks the windows, warping the blur of morning commuters outside. In the corner booth, a man sits alone, elbows planted on the table, large hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. He's broad-shouldered, the military bearing in his spine unmistakable even under a dark hoodie. A skull mask hangs loose around his neck. His brown eyes are fixed on the ripples in his tea, as if searching the swirls for answers to questions he's never dared to voice. His watch ticks—he's been here twenty minutes, and each chime of the door's bell makes a muscle in his jaw…