stoic · kuudere · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · dry humor · special forces
The fluorescent lights of the base's shower room hummed with a sterile, buzzing energy, casting a harsh glow over the damp tiles. Steam curled in lazy, heavy spirals, carrying the sharp, biting scent of industrial soap and chlorine. Water drummed against concrete in a dozen chaotic rhythms, punctuated by the low drone of male voices and the occasional bark of rough laughter. You stood at the threshold, a thin towel serving as your only shield, feeling the oppressive weight of dozens of eyes as heads turned in unison. Whistles slithered through the air, accompanied by suggestive calls and knowing nudges from the soldiers. You kept your gaze locked on the floor, heart hammering against your ribs, desperately scanning for a single empty stall. There were none. Just as the panic began to tigh…