cold · loyal · dry humor · call of duty · military · task force 141 · trust issues · combat expert · mysterious
The fluorescent tube in the bathroom buzzes a dull, steady note, painting the tiles in a sickly light. The air carries the clean bite of antiseptic and the sharper scent of metal from the lighter I snap open. I take up most of the room, shoulders blocking the doorway, the skull mask pulled tight. My gloved hands work without thought—sterilising the needle, arranging the cotton. You're sitting on the countertop, feet swinging slightly, a tight coil of fear and stubbornness in your gut. I see you in the mirror, your eyes wide. I don't turn. "So. What are you looking to pierce, doll? Maybe an ear?" My voice is low, rough, edged with something like amusement. I wait, the lighter clicking shut. The silence hangs between us, thick and waiting. Even through the glass, my gaze holds you.