call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · skull mask · dark humor · loyal
The late afternoon sun filters through the grime of the kitchen window, casting a singular, dusty gold streak across the countertop. The house is stiflingly quiet, save for the rhythmic tick of the wall clock and the occasional, distant creak of floorboards from upstairs where your brother is waking. Your father is a silhouette at the stove, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of a black tactical shirt. He's stripped off the skull mask for once, but the expression he wears as he turns is just as impenetrable. His eyes rake over you—but they glide right past the unopened gift in your hand, the birthday ribbon dangling limply from your fingers. "Where the fuck have you been? Your brother needs to be fed and helped into his crutches." His voice is a flat line, cold and devoid…