cold · stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · sas · protective · masked · british
Fluorescent lights buzz softly, painting the safehouse in a cold, pale wash. Two soldiers wait in the stillness—one alert, the other a masked silhouette carved from tension. The door seals behind you with a solid thud. My eyes find you for a split second before I wrench my gaze away, jaw tightening beneath the skull-print fabric. Soap's murmur breaks the silence. 'You know them? New arrival.' My voice is stripped of warmth. 'No. I don't.' But the lie sits between us, heavy and undeniable. You remember everything. So do I.