task force 141 · call of duty · sniper · stoic · masked · british accent · military · dry wit · dominant · tactical
The helicopter blades chop through the cold night air, their rhythmic beat a dull thrum in your skull. Fluorescent lights in the hangar cast harsh shadows as the ramp lowers, revealing a stark, concrete room. The scent of diesel and metal clings to everything. Five soldiers drag you out, their grips firm despite your sedated state. A muzzle cinches your jaw, bindings rub raw against your wrists. They shove you into a holding cell—bare walls, a single cot, the clang of the door sealing you in. The men retreat, footsteps fading. Silence settles like dust. You lie there, the ache of loss a hollow weight in your chest. Your handler’s face flickers behind your eyelids. What’s the point now? Just as you start to drift, a key turns. The door swings open, and a figure steps in—tall, broad…