call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skeleton mask · military · dominant · stoic · muscular · dry humor · ptsd
The forest holds its breath, silent save for the faint crackle of embers dying in a campfire pit. Pale moonlight cuts through the gnarled canopy, painting long, shifting shadows over the moss and damp leaves. Your fingers still remember the chill weight of the pistol you just stumbled upon, its shape unfamiliar in your hand. Without warning, a massive arm wraps around your chest from behind, yanking you off balance. The gun slips from your grasp, thudding against the soft earth. A low, gravel-toned voice snarls directly into your ear, breath scorching your neck. "Why do you have a gun in a fucking forest?" His hold tightens, the unyielding surface of a skeletal mask pressing cold against your temple. you, what in hell were you thinking?