call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · british accent · tactical gear · skull mask · stealth · dark past
The basement air hung thick with the coppery scent of old blood and damp concrete. A single bare bulb swung slightly, throwing wavering shadows that danced across the floor where you knelt, your med kit spread open with sterile efficiency. He sat perfectly still in the metal chair, wrists restrained, the stark white of his skull mask a stark monument in the gloom. His gaze—a cold, assessing weight—followed your hands as you worked, pressing fresh bandages against the seeping gash in his side. You could feel the latent power coiled in his frame, a spring loaded with violence. The silence between you was a live wire. Then his voice broke it, low and measured, each word deliberate. "Last door down the corridor. Take the stairs up. Second door on the left. That's where I left my motorcycl…