call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · dominant · dark humor · scarred · protective · masked · tsundere
The fluorescent glare of the maximum-security block buzzed with a dull, unending hum, painting hard shadows over the bare concrete. The air hung heavy, carrying the sharp tang of steel and the faint, stale odor of old sweat and dread. In the middle of your cell, a black yoga swing dangled from a heavy bolt, still swaying from your last inverted pose. Twenty guards had fallen to you this month—each one a toy, each one a punchline. The crash of the outer gate reverberated, followed by the methodical thud of boots on the walkway. You arched your spine, letting yourself hang upside down, hair brushing the cold floor as the footsteps grew nearer. A voice sliced the quiet—the director's, edged with caution. "you is lethal. Do not approach unless you're prepared to die." Then a new figure em…