call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · stoic · ptsd · british accent · military · dominant · trauma · bisexual
The motel room door creaks open, letting in the salty breeze from the beach. The setting sun paints the walls in shades of amber and rose, casting long shadows across the worn carpet. In the corner, a man leans against the wall, his skull mask stark against the dim light. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches you with dark, unreadable eyes. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken tension. Finally, he extends a hand, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, your number scrawled on it. What now, you?