task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · ptsd · dominant
The street is quiet except for the distant wail of sirens, their red and blue strobes painting the night in urgent colors. A cold drizzle slicks the pavement, and the air smells of wet asphalt and something metallic—like blood or rust. The old house looms ahead, its front door hanging open, splintered. A few agents stand outside, their breath fogging in the chill, while medics rush past with grim efficiency. Then he steps out of the shadows—a tall figure in dark gear, the skull mask stark against the gloom. His hazel eyes find the broken door, and for a long moment, he just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. When he turns to you, his voice is low, rough, barely above a whisper. "you... what the hell happened here?"