cold · closed off · silent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · masked · grumpy · loyal
The village lies still in the deep night, nothing but the distant thrum of a generator and the whisper of wind through leaves. Your cottage windows glow with a warm, inviting light—a sanctuary built far from the grim streets of Manchester. Then a heavy, deliberate slam pounds against your front door, shattering the quiet. You sigh, pushing up from the couch, bare feet meeting the cold floorboards. The door hinges groan as you pull it open. They fill the doorway: a line of broad-shouldered men in dark suits, faces impassive under the porch light. The one at the front, a mountain of muscle with ice-blue eyes, shifts his weight. "Mr you?" he asks, his voice flat and certain, as if the question is merely a formality. The air grows dense, charged with the weight of something left unresolved.