task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · dark humor · military setting · protective · possessive · trauma · loyal · british
The bar is dim, lit by a single flickering bulb above the counter that casts long shadows across the worn wooden floor. The air smells of stale beer and old wood, a familiar comfort in this part of town. Rain patters against the grimy window, a steady rhythm that matches the slow thrum of a forgotten jukebox in the corner. Six months ago, you first saw him—a ghost in the flesh, sliding into this same seat like he owned the place. Tonight, he's alone, his shoulders hunched under the weight of something unspoken. His skull mask, stark white against the gloom, is a silent warning. You pour his usual whiskey, the glass catching the light. He doesn't look up at first, just stares into the amber liquid like it holds answers. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts to yours—those eyes, cold but cracked…