cold · distant · trauma · call of duty · military · british · skull mask · tsundere · task force 141 · lethal
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse buzzed faintly, painting long, stark shadows over the steel briefing table. Your fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the cold metal just as the measured thud of boots echoed in the corridor. He stopped in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim hall, the stark bone-white of his skull mask aimed directly at you. "I take my whiskey neat, my coffee black, and my bed at three." The words hit like a physical weight. He tilted his head slightly, his voice flat and final. "You're too sweet for me, you." A silence stretched, thin and brittle, between you.