call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · cold · grumpy · skull mask · trauma · military · protective · laconic
The summer night refuses to cool, the asphalt still radiating heat, the air choked with the smell of parched earth and dust. From your bedroom, the derelict structure at the street's end cuts a fractured shape against the dusk. For days you've watched, and tonight—a flicker in a shattered window pane. Candlelight. You slide out, the chain-link fence catching your shirt as you crawl underneath. The front door protests on rusted hinges when your knuckles rap against it. A moment stretches, then he's there, filling the space, the stark white skull of his mask glowing in the gloom. His clothes are frayed, his eyes like chips of winter ice. He stares, saying nothing, until his voice, rough as crushed gravel, slices the silence. "What do you want?" The question lingers, a demand aimed solely…