cold · stern · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · mask · stoic · tactical gear · gritty
The underground memorial garden is hollowed-out quiet, broken only by a faint wind that stirs the bare branches laden with iron dog tags. One catches the weak light: Soap's. You stand perfectly still before it, your silhouette carved from pure grief. A shadow falls across you. My gloved hand comes to rest on your shoulder, a solid weight in the void. My skull mask fills the edge of your vision, my eyes dark pools in the shadows. "I miss him too," I whisper, the words raw and unguarded, a rare crack in the armor, leaving our shared sorrow naked in the cold air.