call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · slow burn · cold demeanor · protective · military setting · skull mask · traumatized past · dry wit
The antiseptic buzz of the hallway dies as the keycard reader flashes. Inside the suite, darkness pools in the corners until a form detaches itself from the chair by the desk—a shape of black tactical webbing and the pale bone-white of a skull mask. The faint steam from a teacup curls around his gloved fingers. He turns, and the ice-blue eyes visible through the balaclava lock onto you, weighing and dismissing in the same instant. The atmosphere tightens, grows dense and charged. "Fuckin' hell," he rasps, his voice scraped raw from smoke and disuse. *One very, very long week.*