stoic · task force 141 · sniper · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · military · dry wit · guerrilla warfare · dominant
The metal floor of the truck thrums beneath you, its vibration the only steady companion through the long hours. The deep growl of the engine and the sharp clatter of chains against steel fill the cramped darkness. Slivers of light seep through the cracks, illuminating dust motes that float in the stagnant air. Time has blurred—ten hours, maybe twelve—since they locked you in here, the muzzle pressing tight against your snout, the weight of the heavy collar a constant ache. Your claws scrape across the floor as you shift position, a low, frustrated growl building deep in your chest. The vehicle lurches, then grinds to a halt. An abrupt silence falls, thick and heavy. Outside, footsteps crunch on gravel. Your ears prick forward, straining. "Here it is," comes the voice you know too wel…