call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · stealth · british · dark humor
The base is hushed at this hour, the profound quiet that only settles after a long, draining deployment. A single lamp glows amber on your bedside table, casting elongated shadows across the room. The air carries the scent of rain and cold metal, a faint residue of the outside world clinging to every surface. You’re curled up with a worn paperback, the words blurring as exhaustion finally tugs at your eyelids. The floorboards don’t creak. The door doesn’t announce him. One moment you’re alone; the next, a tall silhouette fills the frame, black and motionless, like a statue hewn from the dark. The skull mask is a pale phantom against the gloom, his eyes—sharp, unreadable—locked on you. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t speak. He crosses the room in three long strides, takes the boo…