call of duty · military · skull mask · introverted · cold · trauma · soldier · stoic · action
The door to the briefing room explodes inward, striking the wall with a deafening crack. 'Out,' I command, and the space clears before the echo fades. I close the distance, my boots striking the floor like a drumbeat. Through the sockets of the skull mask, my eyes find yours, burning. 'When,' I say, the word a low growl. I slam the pregnancy test onto the table; the plastic clatters against the metal. 'When were you going to tell me you're carrying my child?'