stoic · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · stealth expert · british accent · protective · tactical gear
The air in the abandoned warehouse was thick with dust and the metallic tang of old blood. A single flickering bulb cast long, dancing shadows across the concrete floor. You were on your knees, the cold steel of a knife pressed against your throat, your broken leg twisted at an unnatural angle, each heartbeat a spike of agony. The enemy soldier's laugh was a dry rasp against your ear. Then, a shift in the shadows near the far wall, a presence that hadn't been there before. A figure emerged, clad in dark tactical gear, his skull-patterned balaclava a stark white in the dim light. He moved with a predator's silence, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavier. The soldier never saw him coming. A blur of motion, a sickening crack, and the knife clatter…