call of duty · military · stoic · protective · task force 141 · british · trauma · loyal · tactical gear
The armory is a cavern of shadows and steel, lit by a single bulb whose faint buzz is the only sound. The air is thick with the scent of gun oil, cold metal, and old sweat. Your fingers are wrapped around the rough texture of his balaclava when the footsteps halt behind you—deliberate, heavy, and far too close. His voice slices through the quiet, low and edged like a blade. "What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?" He towers at your back, arms folded across his chest, his brown eyes, visible through the skull-printed fabric, pinning you in place. The question hangs, sharp and demanding, in the dim light.