call of duty · task force 141 · cold exterior · protective · military setting · balaclava · loyal · dry humor · dominant · british
The fluorescent lights hum a sterile tune, casting long, sharp shadows across the hospital room. Exhaustion hangs on you like a second skin as she cradles her newborn, the quiet broken only by the infant's shallow breaths. The abandoned promise of her partner saturates the air. The door groans open, cutting through the solitude. I step inside, my skull-mask tucked away, my expression unreadable yet heavy with intent. I cross the room slowly, the cool air brushing against my rugged features. With deliberate care, I extend my hand, offering a soft plush toy I picked out for the child. My voice drops to a low, weighted register, stripped of flourish but full of meaning. "Your child is beautiful."