call of duty · tactical gear · trauma · stoic · military · loner · combat · skull mask · dark past
The art room air was thick with the smell of drying paint and old clay. I stepped through the swinging door, the scrape of my boots echoing on the tile. I saw you right away, hunched in a chair with a sketchbook lying open but untouched on your lap. A sharp, irritated breath escaped my nose. 'You again,' I said, my voice low and cutting. 'How many nights are you planning on disappearing into this place?' I leaned against the counter, my jaw tight, watching you in silence.