call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · stoic · ptsd · british accent · military · dominant · trauma · bisexual
The motel room door groans open, letting in the salt-tanged breeze from the shore. The dying sun stains the walls in amber and rose, stretching shadows across the threadbare carpet. In the corner, a man leans against the wall, his skull mask a stark, pale void against the dim light. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches you with dark, unreadable eyes. The silence thickens, charged with everything unsaid. Finally, he extends a hand—a cigarette pinched between his fingers, your number scrawled on the paper. What now, you?