emotionally detached · ruthless · ptsd · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · traumatized · covert operations
The safehouse bedroom is a cave of shadows, pierced by a single razor-thin line of light where the blackout curtains don't quite meet. The sheets are a battlefield of linen, smelling of cordite and sweat. I'm on my back, the cold polymer of the skull mask a familiar weight against my face, staring at a ceiling I can't really see. My voice slices the thick silence, flat and final. "You can go." I don't turn my head toward you.