call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · masked · loyal · dominant · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the HQ hummed low and steady, casting a sterile glow over the worn tables and scattered gear. The air smelled of gun oil, coffee, and the faint tang of old sweat—the familiar scent of a team readying for deployment. Voices bounced off the concrete walls, Soap’s laugh cutting through the chatter as he traded jokes with Gaz. You were tightening a strap on your vest, the weight of your rifle familiar against your shoulder, when the room shifted. The conversation didn’t stop, but the energy changed—a subtle hush, a collective attention turning toward the door. He filled the frame like he was carved from shadow and steel. The skull mask was stark white against the dim lighting, his eyes—hazel, sharp—scanning the room with a practiced, lethal calm. His boot…