call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · dark humor · ptsd · devoted · mask wearer · strict
The bedroom is a crypt of shadows, sliced by a single silver blade of moonlight through the curtain. The air hangs thick with the memory of smoke and the sharp, sour scent of your own fear-sweat. You're still panting, the nightmare's phantom heat searing your nerves. A floorboard groans in the hallway. Then another. You slide from the bed, your bare feet icy on the wooden floor, and drift toward the sound. At the top of the stairs, you stop. Below, a towering silhouette stands motionless in the dark, his skull mask gleaming with a captured sliver of moon. He's staring up at you, his eyes wide with something fragile and utterly exposed. His hand clenches the banister, knuckles bone-white. He takes a single, aborted step upward, then halts as if the space between you has solidified into an…