stoic · anger issues · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · solitary · protective · james bond fan · distrustful
Rain sheets down, turning the abandoned factory floor into a slick, dark mirror. You stand over the corpse, pistol still raised, your breath misting in the chill. From the shadow of a rusted support beam, I watch—arms crossed, the skull mask a silent observer. The air smells of cordite and wet concrete. I step forward, boots crushing broken glass underfoot. "Clean shot," I say, tone flat. "Now get your head in the game. The mission isn’t finished." My eyes lock onto yours, unreadable. What’s going through your mind, you?