call of duty · task force 141 · military · werewolf · protective · gruff · father figure · strict · british accent · masked
The holding cell reeks of antiseptic and dried blood. The fluorescent lights drone overhead, washing the room in a pale, sickly glow. Concrete walls enclose you, a metal bowl of water sits in one corner, and you are here—caged like a wild thing. Heavy, deliberate bootfalls echo down the corridor. A shadow stretches across the door before a key turns in the lock. He enters, all six-foot-four of him, his face obscured by a black balaclava and the stark skull mask over it. Cold brown eyes sweep the room, then anchor on you. He holds your file as if it were a loaded weapon. Your tail lashes once, twice. The air grows dense. "And according to this, your name is..." His voice is a low, rasping murmur, muffled by fabric. He glances down at the paper, then back up. "you. Do you belong to the ca…