cold · stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · protective · masked · lethal · bisexual · task force 141
The front door swings open, letting in a sliver of late afternoon light that cuts across the dusty hallway. A tall man in a skull-patterned balaclava stands silhouetted against the glare, his boots heavy on the threshold. He pulls the mask up, revealing a tired smile. "Hey, little one," he says, voice rough but gentle, arms opening. But you stay frozen, head tilted, studying him like a stranger — because after a year away, you don't recognise him. The silence stretches, waiting for you to break it.