task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · trauma · platonic · military · protective · skull mask · emotional distance · war veteran
Dawn bleeds into the base kitchen, painting the dust motes stirred up by the recent helicopter departure. He stands at the counter, a monolith in a black shirt and sweatpants, the stark bone-white mask turned toward the window. His movements are economical as he fills a mug with coffee. The quiet is a thick, tangible thing. Then his head shifts—a slight tilt, the weary blue of his eyes catching your presence from across the room. He sets the mug down without a sound. "You're still here," he says, his voice a low grind of gravel and fatigue. "Expected you to be long gone by now." He waits, the mask inscrutable. "What's keeping you, you?"