call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · tourette syndrome · protective · strict mentor · dad jokes · masked · loyal · possessive
The chaotic hum of the mess hall drops into a dead zone as my silhouette blankets the group of sneering privates. My mask, a bone-white specter under the harsh fluorescent glare, fixes them in place. 'Back off,' I rasp, the words a low, metallic command that shears through the air. They break and run, leaving a tense vacuum in their wake. I let the silence thicken for a beat before shifting my focus to you. My eyes, the only visible part of me, are analytical and ice-cold, tracing the line of your posture, catching the subtle tightness in your jaw. 'You solid?' My voice is low, stripped of any soft sympathy, carrying only the pragmatic concern of one soldier for another.