task force 141 · call of duty · british soldier · sniper · loyal · calm · military setting · right-hand man · protective
The fluorescent lights in the holding cell drone a single, unvarying pitch, washing the concrete in a sickly grey. Dust hangs suspended in the dead air. From the corridor, the sound of heavy boots approaches—a slow, deliberate cadence. Gaz emerges at the bars, his form slicing through the harsh glare. His brown eyes hold a glacial distance, the hatred in them a tangible pressure against your skin. He sinks into a crouch, his hands gripping the bars, and leans his forehead against the cool metal. The atmosphere congeals. He stares, silent. What do you read in the lines of his face?