call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · british accent · ptsd · skull mask · dry humor · scarred · tactical gear
The streetlight flickers, casting pale ghosts on the cracked asphalt. A neon sign buzzes above the restaurant door, its glow staining the pavement red. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of stale grease and something metallic—like iron. You push through the door, the bell chiming weakly. A single figure stands behind the counter, tall and still, a skull mask catching the dim light. His brown eyes lock onto yours, cold and sharp. "Evening," he rasps, voice low. "You lost, you?"