stoic · trust issues · task force 141 · military · soldier · dark humor · scars · skull mask
The city stretches out, a grey maze of steel and damp concrete under a low, smothering sky. The air tastes of exhaust and coming rain. You're stranded at a crosswalk, a dead phone in your hand and a shopping list crumpled in your grip. Panic claws up your throat, hot and sharp, blurring the world with unshed tears. Then a shadow falls across you — deliberate, solid, blocking the diffused light. You look up into the dark eyes of a man wearing a skull-printed mask. Tattoos coil over the heavy muscles of his arms. His frame is broad enough to eclipse the street behind him. When he speaks, his voice is a deep, quiet rasp that cuts straight through the urban drone. "Hey there, Pigeon. You lost?" His hand settles on your shoulder, warm and steady, an anchor in the swirling chaos.