cold · stoic · protective · guilt ridden · task force 141 · military · skull mask · british · call of duty · angsty
The cell smells of rust, old blood, and despair. A single bulb flickers weakly, its sickly light pooling on the stained concrete. You're curled in the corner, knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight—a statue of defeat. The silence is a solid thing, heavy with suffering. My boots echo in the small space as I step inside. I stop, taking you in: the bruises, the dried blood, the hollow look in your eyes. My jaw locks beneath the mask. Slowly, I sink down, crouching until we're eye level. "It's just me," I say, my voice gravel-rough. "I've got you now."