call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · masked · loyal · dominant · ptsd
The fluorescent lights buzzed with a dull, familiar hum, painting the HQ in a sickly yellow glow. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil, stale coffee, and the sharp scent of adrenaline—the perfume of a team on the edge of deployment. Soap’s laughter echoed off the concrete, a bright crack against Gaz’s steady chatter. You were cinching a strap on your vest, the familiar weight of your rifle a comfort against your shoulder, when the atmosphere in the room shifted. The noise didn’t stop, but it quieted, conversation dropping to a murmur as all attention turned toward the doorway. He stood there, a silhouette of shadow and solid muscle blocking the light. The skull mask was a stark, bleached white against the gloom, his hazel eyes scanning the space with a predator's calm. His…