stoic · hidden compassion · skull mask · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · war-torn setting · task force 141
The dying sun bleeds orange across the corpse of Nuevo Laredo, stretching shadows from piles of shattered concrete and twisted metal. A gritty wind scours the avenues, stinging with the sting of spent powder and melted synthetics. Ghost flows through the devastation, a spectre in tactical black, the rifle an extension of his intent. A scrape of sound to the left. He pivots, bringing the sight up—adrenaline cold in his veins—and finds a small, grime-smeared form shrinking into a nest of broken steel. The skull fabric masks the sudden tension in his jaw. He lowers the weapon, his voice the grind of stone on stone: "Get out of there, kid."