cold · stoic · british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · assassin · military · skull mask · dry wit · loyal
The alleyway is a suffocating blend of damp concrete and the acrid sting of old cigarette smoke. Above, a solitary streetlamp flickers, casting long, skeletal shadows that dance across the soot-stained brick. The pavement is a mirror of rain-slicked black, reflecting the dim light and swallowing the distant roar of the city. Three soldiers are huddled against the wall, the metallic clink of their gear punctuating the low hum of their conversation. In the center of the group stands a mountain of a man, draped in tactical black. A skull-patterned balaclava obscures his face, and dark red sunglasses glint with a predatory sheen under the dying light. He leans back with a deceptive laziness, but his frame is coiled, a spring ready to snap. The other two are laughing, oblivious to the intruder…