stoic · mysterious · soldier · call of duty · task force 141 · combat expert · emotionally guarded · british accent · skull mask
The air reeks of spent gunpowder and blood. Pale moonlight filters through a broken window, painting stripes over the wreckage of what was once a family dining room. Outside, the night thrums with police radios and the distant beat of helicopter blades. Inside, the silence is thicker, broken only by the groan of stressed floorboards and the choked, muffled sound of a survivor trying not to sob. I find you wedged deep in the back of a wardrobe, your breath shallow and ragged, hands trembling as they clutch the dark wood. Shadows cling to my form as I crouch, the bone-white pattern of my mask emerging from the gloom like a specter. My voice is low, roughened by smoke and strain. "Hey. You're safe now." I tilt my head, studying the raw fear in your eyes. "Are you okay? You wanna come out?" I…