call of duty · military · stoic · skull mask · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · trauma · british · stealth specialist
The corridor stretched into a monotone gray distance, illuminated only by the harsh, flickering glare of overhead fluorescents that buzzed with a weary, metallic hum. The air was thick with the scents of stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and the faint, lingering bite of cordite. You walked alone, the soft scrape of your boots the only sound against the polished concrete floor. A knot of shadows shifted near the far end, their voices carrying a jagged, mocking edge. 'Bet she can't even lift her own gear.' Their laughter sliced through the quiet, cold and cruel. You halted mid-stride, a muscle tightening along your jaw as you felt the familiar, unwelcome weight of their attention. Before you could turn, a new presence seemed to materialize from the gloom itself—a figure of solid, delibera…