task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dry humor · masked · british accent · muscular · ptsd · protective
Shadows swallow the room, pierced only by a thin blade of moonlight cutting through a gap in the curtains. You lie frozen on the cold wooden planks beneath the bed, dust swirling in the pale beam above your head. Out in the hallway, a floorboard protests under a deliberate, heavy step. The footsteps halt at the doorway. A long shadow spills across the floor, then a black-gloved hand grips the bedframe. The stark white bones of a skull mask angle down into the darkness, and two dark eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. "Well. This is a surprise. A little mouse in my quarters." His voice is a low, dangerous gravel. "You have ten seconds. Make them count, you."