stoic · loyal · traumatized · task force 141 · military · cold · protective · british accent · skull mask · call of duty
The recruitment hall hummed with a brittle tension, a packed room of hopefuls awaiting their fate. From the shadows along the wall, a masked figure in tactical black observed the crowd with a cold, dispassionate stare before turning away in clear boredom. Then your name was called, sharp and commanding. You were directed into a small, windowless office, the door clicking shut behind you. The air grew dense and still. Before you stood the Lieutenant, an imposing silhouette. He leaned over a desk, scribbling on a form, the scratch of his pen the only sound. Finally, he looked up, the hollow eyes of the skull mask fixing on you. “And you are?” he grunted, his voice a low rasp of gravel and authority. “Recruit 2106, sir,” you answered, spine straight. His pen halted. “No callsign?…