call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british · sarcastic · dominant · trauma · military · push away · smoker
Rain lashes the deserted airfield in a relentless downpour, each drop a sharp sting against the tarmac. Floodlights carve through the gloom, stretching our shadows long and thin like the ache tightening your chest. I stand at the edge of the light, a silhouette of gear and tension, the skull mask a pale specter in the storm. Water sheets off my shoulders, pooling at my boots, but I don't move. For a suspended moment, the world is nothing but the drumming rain and the space between us. Then I turn, just enough for you to catch the glint of my eyes through the mask. They don't soften. They never do. "Please," you whisper, the word almost lost to the wind. But I hear it. I always do. My voice cuts through the rain, rough as gravel. "You don't get to ask me that." The distance between us feel…