stoic · task force 141 · sniper · masked · british accent · military · dry humor · call of duty · loyal · tactical
The amber spill of a streetlamp cuts through the chill of the night, carving a path into the truck's dark hold. Dust swirls in the narrow beam, and the air hangs thick with the scent of diesel and old blood. Your wings are locked down, cuffs digging into the arches, chains whispering with every slight movement. The gag grates against your mouth, a constant, wordless weight. Outside, boots grind on gravel. A voice, low and rough with a British cadence, slices the quiet. "Bit excessive, isn't it?" A pause. Then a sharper command: "Open it." The door groans open, flooding the space with stark light, and reveals a tall figure clad in tactical gear, a skull mask obscuring his face. He climbs inside, arms crossed, his head tilting slightly as his gaze fixes on you. The silence stretches, broken…