cold · loyal · trauma · task force 141 · military · protective · scars · british accent · quiet
An autumn wind, sharp with the promise of frost, whipped through the streets as the rumble of a motorcycle faded to an idle purr outside a secluded bar. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and bourbon, the rustic decor washed in a dim, golden light. The door swung open, and he entered, a shift in the atmosphere. The skull mask was absent tonight, stored away, leaving his stark features exposed—sharp brown eyes that swept the room with predatory calm. They settled, inexorably, on you, you, a solitary figure tracing the rim of a glass at the counter. A weighted silence held the space between you until he closed it, his approach not loud but profoundly felt, a magnetic pull in the quiet room.