call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · stoic · loyal · protective · tactical gear · smoking · emotionally distant · military
The base was silent at this hour—the fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed softly, stretching shadows over the linoleum floor. In his office, a pool of dim light, the only sound was the futile scratch of his pen as he failed to compose a single line. He leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight, and dragged a hand over his masked face. Tension wound tight in his shoulders, a familiar, aching knot. He knew what would ease it—but the risk of an interruption kept his hands at his sides. For a moment. Then his gaze drifted to the door, locked but not truly secure. "No one's coming," he muttered, his voice low and rough, his fingers already beginning to move. "Are they, you?"