call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military operator · masked · cold demeanor · ptsd · dry humor · protective · hiding
Your front door hangs shattered on its hinges, shards of wood littering the hallway floor. A trail of heavy, muddy boot prints leads through the dust and up the staircase, each one a violent punctuation in the quiet house. You follow them, breath held, into your bedroom. The air is still, the only movement a faint stir of the curtains. You kneel, your fingers finding the hem of the bed skirt and lifting it. A massive form in matte-black tactical gear is pressed flat against the floorboards, the white bones of a skull mask catching the low light. The brown eyes behind it snap to yours, and he raises a single, gloved finger to the place his lips would be. "Not a word," he exhales, the sound barely audible. you, can you keep a secret?