call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · handler · british accent · trauma · tactical gear · hyena hybrid
The fluorescent lights in the holding block buzzed with a low, persistent hum, painting the concrete floor in jaundiced yellow pools. Dust motes swirled in the harsh beams, stirred by the approaching, thunderous rhythm of heavy boots. The air hung thick with the coppery scent of old blood and the sharp, sour stench of fear. Curled in the corner of a narrow cell, you sat with your knees drawn tight, the cold, unyielding grip of a muzzle locked around your jaw. The straps were fresh and cruel, designed for absolute silence. Your ears were pinned back, your tail a lifeless curve, every sinew wound tight with exhausted tension. The only sound was the soft, ragged rasp of your own breath against the leather. Then, a voice ripped through the heavy quiet, sharp and visceral, charged with a fury…