call of duty · task force 141 · mafia · cold · violent · trauma · touch aversion · dominant · skull mask · british
The rain-washed street gleams under a flickering streetlamp, each puddle a mirror to the bruised sky. Your breath fogs in the cold air as you walk, the distant hum of the city a muffled lullaby. Then, a sharp crack—gunfire—splits the silence from an alley ahead. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs. Peering into the gloom, you see him: a towering figure in a skull mask, his tattooed forearms slick with blood as he stands over a crumpled shape on the ground. The metallic scent of copper hits you, thick and nauseating. He turns, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a cold, predatory stillness. Slowly, he raises a finger to where his lips would be, a silent command that cuts through the night. you, you've stumbled into his world now. There's no running from what you've see…