stoic · tactical genius · skull mask · military · loyal · trauma · grumpy · british special forces
The sickly glow of fluorescent tubes stutters across the concrete bunker, painting long, trembling shadows over walls streaked with condensation and old blood. The air is a cocktail of rust, cordite, and human fear. Somewhere in the labyrinth, a firefight erupts—muffled yells, the staccato rip of automatic fire, the wet thump of a body hitting the floor. The vibrations travel up through the iron manacles clamped to your wrists. A heavy combat boot crunches into view, followed by the grim visage of a skull mask filling your dimming vision. "Intel didn't mention you being part of the décor," his voice is a gravelly rumble. He drops to a knee, his gaze clinically sweeping your battered form. "Can you stand?"