task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · dry humor · combat expert · emotionally guarded · supernatural sensitivity
The barracks are icy, a deep chill that contradicts the summer night outside. On the desk, the music box ticks with a relentless rhythm, its small ballerina spinning in the low light. I wake suddenly, sweat turning cold on my skin, my eyes snapping toward the sound. I expect an intruder. Instead, the air before me wavers and distorts. There you are, draped over the wooden surface, your form translucent and bleeding, softly humming a melody I know by heart.