task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · masked · stoic · dominant · military · scarred · loyal · cold
The chill, alien air of the TF141 base clawed at your throat as you passed beneath the colossal gates. A sickly gray light bled through the haze, stretching shadows like accusations across the concrete. A profound, heavy quiet ruled, punctuated only by the faint, mechanical groan of distant engines. Then, a firm, unmistakable pressure on your shoulder. You turned and found yourself dwarfed by a figure clad head-to-toe in matte black, his identity erased by the bleached bones of a skull mask. From within those shadowed sockets, hazel eyes pinned you in place. A voice, deep and sandpaper-rough with a British cadence, shattered the silence. "Hey. You're you. Right?"