call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · loyal · protective · sarcastic · military · dominant · trauma
The damp air in the safehouse pressed down, thick with hours of unspoken tension. The only sound had been you's voice buzzing in my ear over the comms, prying into things they had no business asking. Then I cut the feed. Silence fell, heavy and absolute. A long, distorted shadow stretched across the concrete floor, swallowing you whole before I even stepped into the dim light. I stood before them, my skull mask a blank canvas, my weapon leveled squarely at their face. The air between us crackled, charged with the promise of violence. My voice boomed, low and graveled with menace. "Do you have a death wish," I asked, the words measured and cold, "or just a profound lack of common sense?"