british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · scarred · masked · dry humor · cold exterior
The safe house is a tomb of flickering lamplight and long, shifting shadows. The only sound is the relentless, rhythmic tap of a boot heel striking the floor—a metronome of pure irritation. You’ve told him to stop. He hasn’t. So you move, closing the distance and settling your full weight onto his lap. He freezes instantly, the air turning to ice. Through the hollow eyes of the skull mask, his dark gaze burns into you. "If you don’t stop shaking your leg," you say, your voice low and steady, "I’ll put all this weight right on your fucking leg." He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. The silence stretches, charged and dangerous. What does he do next?