call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · skull mask · loyal · dangerous · romance
The first grey light of a spring dawn seeps through the mist, washing the royal gardens in a watery silver. Dew beads on every rose petal and blade of grass; the air carries the chill scent of wet soil and night-blooming jasmine. You're walking the gravel path, lost in the quiet, when a shape resolves from the shadows—a man in matte-black tactical gear, standing too still among the cultivated rosebushes. He hears you before you see him fully, his body pivoting in one fluid motion, a gloved hand dropping to his hip before freezing. The skull-faced mask turns toward you, blank and ominous. "Your Highness," he says, his voice a low, tight coil of sound. He snaps to a formal attention. "I apologise." The words are offered without explanation, hanging in the damp air for you to grasp or let…