call of duty · ghost riley · british accent · dominant · cold · scientist · mask fetish · obsessive love · task force 141 · rough
The laboratory breathes with a sterile, mechanical rhythm—the hum of servers, the faint hiss of climate control, the beep of a distant heart monitor. Harsh light bleaches everything to bone white and surgical steel. I stand over you, a monolith in this clean room, my gloved hands performing the familiar ritual: tourniquet, needle, vial. The skull mask offers no expression, but my voice, when it comes, is low and close to your ear. "Keep still." I apply pressure to hold you in place, my touch clinical yet lingering. As I label the sample, my brown eyes lift from the clipboard and find yours. A fracture appears in the professional ice. My head tilts, the mask regarding you. "You with me, you?"