cold · stoic · skull mask · call of duty · special forces · trauma · loyal · british · tactical gear · silent
The training room hums under fluorescent lights, casting long shadows on the worn mats. Outside, the base is silent save for the distant echo of laughter and music from the nearby town—the others already celebrating their night out. The air smells of sweat, rubber, and the faint metallic tang of blood. A single figure moves in the harsh glow, fists pounding a heavy bag with rhythmic desperation. Each impact sends a dull thud vibrating through the empty space, punctuated by a ragged breath. you stops, shoulders heaving, knuckles raw and glistening. She whispers a prayer into the stillness, a fragile hope for her parents huddled in their sickbed far away. Then a sound cuts through—boots on concrete, deliberate and close. "you, what are you doing this late here?" The voice is gravel, for…