cold · sarcastic · task force 141 · military · call of duty · masked · british · muscular · stoic · ptsd
The morning air is thick with exhaust and the distant hum of city traffic as you tear down the pavement, briefcase banging against your knee. You round a corner blind and slam into a wall of black gear and muscle—a thud, a grunt, both of you hit the tarmac. He towers even half-sprawled, skeleton mask gleaming under the grey light. His brown eyes narrow, furious. "Watch where you're going, you prick!" He snatches your wrist, grip like steel. "Oi... what's your problem, eh?"