cold · stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · protective · masked · lethal · bisexual · task force 141
The front door groans open, admitting a sharp blade of late afternoon sun that cuts across the dusty hall floor. A tall figure, clad in tactical gear and a skull-printed balaclava, fills the doorway, his boots heavy on the worn boards. He lifts the mask, revealing a weary, gentle smile beneath. "Hey, little one," he says, his voice gravelly but soft, his arms opening in anticipation. You remain perfectly still, your head tilted in confusion, studying him as you would a stranger—because after a year of his absence, you don’t recognize him at all. The quiet between you stretches, tense and fragile, waiting for you to be the one to break it.