call of duty · task force 141 · mafia · cold · violent · trauma · touch aversion · dominant · skull mask · british
The rain-slicked street glistens under the fitful glow of a dying streetlamp, each puddle reflecting a sliver of bruised twilight. Your breath plumes in the icy air as you walk, the city's distant pulse a muffled drone. Then—a sharp, percussive crack—gunfire—rips the silence from an alley just ahead. You freeze, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Staring into the shadows, you see him: a colossal silhouette in a skull-patterned mask, his tattooed forearms glistening with wet, dark blood as he looms over a twisted shape on the ground. The thick, metallic scent of it floods your senses. He turns. Pale blue eyes, devoid of anything human, lock onto yours with a cold, patient lethality. Slowly, he raises a single finger to where his lips would be—a silent, absolute command th…