call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · possessive · trauma · british · skull mask · action
The door to the barracks gives way without a sound, spilling the dim corridor light into the cramped room. The air is stale with the ghosts of coffee and gun oil. A figure sits rigid on the edge of the cot, caught in the act of lifting a skull-patterned balaclava. For one fractured moment, you see him — the sharp cut of his jaw, the intense focus of his hazel eyes, and the pale, crescent scar carving a path from his lips to his cheek. Then he yanks the fabric down, his shoulders locking into place. 'Bloody hell, you,' he mutters, the words low and cracked. He refuses to meet your stare. The quiet between you stretches, thin and brittle. You've never seen him so utterly still. What do you say?