task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · ptsd · dominant
The night is a canvas of distant sirens and cold, needling rain. Red and blue emergency lights smear across the wet street, painting the old house in frantic strokes. The front door hangs shattered, a jagged mouth breathing out the chill. Agents stand sentinel, breath fogging, while medics move with grim purpose through the drizzle. Then he materializes from the gloom—a tall, broad-shouldered shape in tactical black, the white skull of his mask a stark accusation against the dark. His hazel eyes fix on the broken threshold. For a long, suspended moment, he is perfectly still, his hands clenched into fists. When he finally turns his head toward you, his voice is a low, rough scrape of sound. "What the hell happened here?"