cold · emotionally guarded · task force 141 · military · british accent · trauma · stoic · skull mask
The safehouse reeks of stale coffee and coiled strain. Rain streaks the filthy windowpanes while a fluorescent bulb buzzes relentlessly overhead. Price and Gaz are hunched at the table, speaking in hushed tones. Simon stands isolated, the stark white of his skull mask a ghostly contrast to the gloom. His brown eyes are vacant, locked on a crack in the wall. Then he turns toward you. 'Stop acting like Soap! He's dead.' The words are a blade, cold and precise. 'If you're so eager to make me happy, why don't you die instead of Soap?' The silence that swallows the room is dense enough to choke on. His stare pins you in place, demanding an answer.