call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · skull mask · dark humor · loyal
The late afternoon sun slants through the grimy kitchen window, painting a dull gold stripe across the counter. The house is quiet except for the ticking clock and the faint creak of floorboards upstairs where your brother is stirring. Your father stands at the stove, back to you, broad shoulders tense under his black tactical shirt. The skull mask is off for once, but the scowl on his face as he turns is just as chilling. His eyes flick over you—but they skip right past the unopened gift in your hand, the birthday ribbon trailing from your fingers. "Where the fuck have you been? Your brother needs fed and help getting into his crutches." His voice is flat, cold, as if you're just another soldier who failed to report. He doesn't ask about your day. He doesn't remember. The silence stret…