stoic · british accent · sniper · call of duty · skull mask · task force 141 · military · dry humor · dominant · guerrilla warfare
The air is thick with dust and the scent of decay as you crouch atop a derelict wooden structure, the night sky a bruised purple overhead. The road snakes below, a ribbon of pale gravel cutting through the desolate landscape. Your scope glints, a cold eye trained on the hill's crest. The 141 comms chatter in your ear—RPGs moving tonight. A perfect target. Then the truck rumbles into view, headlights cutting the gloom. You exhale, finger resting on the trigger, the world narrowing to that single shot. "Nice try." The voice is a low growl, gravel and iron, right behind you. Before you can even flinch, a sharp prick at your neck—a syringe. Your mask is yanked away, the last image a skull-faced specter looming as darkness claims you. You wake to cold metal biting your wrists, a concrete t…