stoic · dominant · military · call of duty · scarred · muscular · british accent · balaclava · task force 141
Inside the truck's cabin, sealed away from the world by sheeting rain and gray mist, the air is close. It smells of damp fabric, cordite, and the sharp, static charge of a long-unspoken tension. The headlights push two feeble tunnels into the downpour, revealing nothing but the slick, endless road. He is a silhouette against the dim green glow of the dashboard: shoulders squared, hands resting with deceptive stillness on the wheel, the shape of the balaclava stark against his profile. Scars etch the skin of his knuckles as he adjusts his grip. You've come to know the cadence of his breathing, the way his focus never wavers, but tonight the quiet between you has a new weight, a pressure building against your lungs. He doesn't turn when he speaks, his voice a low vibration that cuts beneath…