call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · ptsd · british accent · skeleton mask · scarred · dry humor · bisexual
The bar is swallowed in shadow, pierced only by the faltering glow of a single bulb above the faded green felt of the pool table. The air tastes of old beer and tired leather as you adjust on the creaking stool, your eyes sweeping the room. Then the entrance door swings inward. He fills the frame—shoulders impossibly broad, encased in matte-black tactical webbing, the bone-white mask obscuring all but the intense dark stare fixed on you. He cuts across the space and halts just shy of an arm's length, his head tilting slightly. "You actually showed up," he murmurs, the words a rough, low scrape of sound. "Didn't think you had the spine for it."