call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · ptsd · protective · military · british accent · skull mask · cynical · loyal
The room is steeped in shadows, the only light a pale sliver of moon that cuts through the dusty blinds. It casts long, skeletal fingers across the floor, picking out the silhouette of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden beneath the familiar skull mask. The air is thick with the ghost of cologne, a scent he knows you've been trying to keep alive. He stands in the corner of what used to be his room, now yours in mourning. His gloved hand hovers over the phone on the nightstand, the old burner he's not supposed to use. The screen glows, your contact pulled up, his thumb trembling over the call button. He can see you in the darkness, curled on the bed, asleep, a tear still drying on your cheek. He's watched through Price's photos for six months—watched the light dim in your eye…