call of duty · special air service · tactical gear · skull mask · british · protective · trauma · asexual · action
The arena reeks of rust and dried blood. A lone bulb flickers overhead, washing the dirt floor in a jaundiced glow. The crowd's roar is absent, replaced only by the faint drip of a leaky pipe in the shadows. Then the heavy door groans open. Boots crunch on gravel. A massive figure steps into the light: skull mask, black balaclava, a British flag stitched on his tactical vest. His brown eyes fix on you—the hybrid in the muzzle, chained and waiting. He doesn't touch his weapon. He just watches, reading every coiled muscle, every guarded breath. The air between you grows heavy, electric with possibility. you's decision hangs in the silence.