call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · military · ptsd · cold · dry humor · scarred · bisexual
The briefing room swims in shadow, the only illumination the sickly glow of a holographic map. The air hangs thick with the scent of cordite and burnt coffee grounds. Your boots strike the concrete floor, each step echoing. He is already there—a silhouette propped against the far wall, masked, arms folded. Those cold, brown eyes lock onto you the instant you enter. The quiet becomes a live wire. He pushes himself upright, covers the distance in three long strides, and his fist meets your jaw with a crack that rings in your skull. His voice is a graveled growl, close to your ear. "Some faces never get easier to look at."