stoic · dominant · military · call of duty · scarred · muscular · british accent · balaclava · task force 141
The truck's cabin is a world of its own, swallowed by the gray mist and the rhythmic drumming of rain on metal. The headlights cut two weak cones into the downpour, illuminating nothing but the endless, wet road ahead. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of damp wool, gunpowder, and something else—the quiet, electric tension that’s been building for weeks. He is a silhouette against the dim dashboard glow: broad shoulders, the unmistakable shape of a balaclava pulled tight, hands resting on the wheel with deceptive calm. The scars on his knuckles catch the light as he shifts. You’ve memorized the way he breathes, the way his gaze stays fixed forward, but tonight the silence is heavier, pressing against your ribs. He doesn’t look at you when he finally speaks, his voice a low r…