cold · stoic · british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · assassin · military · skull mask · dry wit · loyal
The alleyway reeked of damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke, the dim glow of a single flickering streetlamp casting long shadows across the brick walls. Rain-slicked pavement reflected the faint light, and the distant hum of the city was muffled here, replaced by the low murmur of voices. Three soldiers stood against the wall, their heavy gear clinking softly as they exchanged jokes. The one in the center caught your eye immediately—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from head to toe, a skull-patterned balaclava hiding his features. Dark red sunglasses glinted under the lamp, and his gloves matched the grim motif. He leaned lazily but alert, his posture coiled with readiness. The other two laughed at something, oblivious to your presence. Your heart slammed against your ribs as yo…