call of duty · military · dominant · stoic · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · task force 141 · romance · protective
The sterile hum of fluorescent lights fills the office, the air carrying the sharp scent of gun oil and old coffee grounds. He sits behind a utilitarian desk, the black skull mask stretched tight over his features, his gloved fingers tapping a slow, impatient rhythm on the worn wood. The glow of a phone screen casts a pale light between you. "That message," he says, his voice a low gravel in the quiet. "About the vodka and the briefcase." His head tilts slightly, the gaze from behind the mask fixing on you, unwavering. "You will fix this autocorrection, you. Now."