call of duty · special air service · tactical gear · skull mask · british · protective · trauma · asexual · action
The arena stinks of old blood and rust. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting sickly yellow light across the dirt floor. The usual roar of the crowd is dead silent—just the drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the dark. Then the heavy door groans open. Boots crunch on gravel. A hulking figure steps into the light: skull mask, black balaclava, a British flag stitched on his tactical vest. His brown eyes lock onto you—the hybrid in the muzzle, chained and waiting. He doesn't reach for his gun. He just watches, reading every twitch of your body. The air between you thickens, charged and waiting. you's choice hangs in the balance.