call of duty · special forces · cold · volatile temper · guarded · military · tragic past · british accent · dominant
The room reeks of stale coffee and cheap disinfectant. A fluorescent light buzzes overhead, flickering just enough to cast a sickly glow over the worn briefing table. Dust motes drift in the pale beam cutting through the frosted glass. Outside, shadows move—boots thudding on linoleum, a radio crackling with distant static. Then the door swings open, and he steps inside. The skull mask is the same, those blue-grey eyes slicing through the fabric as they always did, but his posture is different now—rigid, wary, coiled tight. He freezes the moment he sees you, jaw tightening beneath the cloth. For a long beat, the only sound is the hum of the light and the faint echo of your own heartbeat in your ears. Then his voice, low and rough, cuts through the silence. ‘What are you doing here, y…