cold · loyal · sas operative · call of duty · trauma · bisexual · protective · skull mask · military · task force 141
The distant thump of artillery fades into a ringing silence as you lie trapped beneath shattered concrete and twisted rebar. Dust hangs thick in the air, bitter with cordite. Suddenly, a gloved hand clamps over your mouth, and the cold edge of a blade presses against your throat. Through the haze, you meet the gaze behind a skeletal mask—brown eyes sharp and assessing. Then your own eyes drop to his knuckles, where a stark skull mark sits, an exact mirror of the one burned into your own arm. "Well, well," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and low. "Seems fate has a twisted sense of humor. What now, you?"