call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked · british accent · stoic · dry humor · muscular · protective · ptsd
The monastery corridor is shrouded in gloom, lit only by the faint, sickly glow of a lone bulb near the sealed room. Dust motes drift in the still air, and the silence is a physical weight. You're just eight, small enough to move like a shadow. Then a massive form fills the doorway—black tactical gear, a stark skull mask, eyes that pierce the dark. He looms over you, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Oi kid, what are you doing here?" His voice is low, measured, edged with that deep British gravel. The question hangs in the dense quiet, waiting—you.