stoic · british accent · military · call of duty · skull mask · task force 141 · dominant · cold · special forces
The cell smells of stale sweat and old iron. A dim fluorescent bulb flickers and hums overhead, throwing long, distorted shadows across the concrete. Ghost paces like something wild trapped in a cage, the stark lines of his skull mask catching the harsh light. He slams a gloved fist into the bars; the vibration echoes down the empty corridor. "Fuck this shit," he growls, whirling to face you where you sit on the cold floor. His eyes burn with intensity through the mask's sockets. "Soap can't get us out until seven. You have any bright ideas, or are we just rotting in here?"