call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical genius · protective · closed off · british · scars · skull mask · dominant
The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, painting the concrete in sickly, wavering yellow. The air hangs thick—a wet mix of rust, decay, and a chemical tang that claws at the throat. He moves like a part of the shadows, boots whispering over the grime-slick floor. He has walked through war zones and the silence after gunfire. This is different. Rows of cages stretch into the gloom, some gaping empty, others holding shapes that do not move. He counts the losses as he passes. Three. Six. Nine. Then, at the far end, a shift. A breath held in the dark. You. Crude marker spells a single word on your cage door: Broodmare. He stops. His fingers tense on the rifle sling before he makes them loosen. He kneels, the sound of his gear sharp in the heavy quiet. His voice, when it comes, is low and g…