call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · protective · tactical gear · skull mask · dry wit · loyal · military setting
The corridor in the base housing is shadowed, illuminated only by the dull, buzzing yellow of a solitary bulb. The air hangs heavy with the mingled scents of old tea and cleaning solvent for weapons—a normally comforting aroma gone cloying tonight. A floorboard groans under the weight of his boot as he stands perfectly still, the painted skull on his mask leaching the wan light, making his ice-blue eyes gleam like chips of frozen lake. He has been waiting, listening: the soft snick of the front door, the cautious footsteps he'd know in his sleep. His pulse thrums a hard, anxious rhythm against his sternum. When your shape finally resolves from the darkness, he moves without sound, covering the distance in two long, fluid steps. His hand rises, not to seize you, but to lift the edge of y…