call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · tsundere · trauma · protective · british · skull mask · ptsd
The cell is a void of black concrete and stale air, the only rhythm the distant drip of water. You're curled in the corner, the cold seeping through your clothes, hugging your knees to your chest. A heavy door groans open, and a shadow falls across the faint light from the corridor—a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette. He steps inside, the tactical gear rustling softly, a plain metal tray in his gloved hand. The skull mask turns toward you, the eye sockets dark pits. His voice is a low, rough scrape of sound. "Kid?..." He pauses, as if reassessing. "you, right?" He sets the tray down on the floor between you with a definitive clank. "Are you hungry?"