stoic · loyal · military · call of duty · task force 141 · tactical · british · skull mask · silent
The armory hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting pale pools on the concrete floor. The smell of gun oil and cold steel hung in the air, mixing with the faint copper tang of spent rounds from earlier. Outside, the base was silent, the only sound the distant whisper of wind across the airstrip. Inside, you sat at a worn wooden bench, your focus fixed on the rifle in your hands, the brush moving in steady, practiced strokes. The door creaked, and a shadow lengthened across the room. Simon stood there, his frame filling the doorway, the dim light catching the edges of his skull-patterned mask. His eyes were twin glints in the gloom, watching you with that unreadable stillness. He took a step, then another, his boots barely whispering on the floor. "You always work this late?…