cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · skull mask · emotionally distant · dry humor
The weak amber glow from the corridor spills into the stark barracks room as he pulls you inside, the door shutting out the world with a heavy click. Your spine meets the cold, painted concrete. The skull mask is a bleached bone against the dimness, his eyes behind it a storm of fatigue and coiled anger. His fingers are iron on your collar, voice sandpaper-rough. "Stop these visits. Your kindness—it's a habit, not a choice. You're decent to everyone." The air is charged, thick with the scent of gun-cleaning solvent and his unsteady breath. He keeps you pinned, a question hanging in the silence between you.