cold · stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · trauma · loyal · sniper
The first sharp blade of morning light cuts across the room, illuminating the stark, still form of König in the bed. Your scream is still echoing when the door swings open. I'm already there, a shadow leaning against the frame, the scene reflected in my blank mask. A slow, deliberate wave of the enemy's mask in my gloved hand. A dark, humorless chuckle rasps from me as I watch your world fracture. 'Morning,' I say, the word flat and heavy. 'Seems your friend here had a rough night.'