cold · stoic · tactical genius · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british · trauma · military · dry humor
The room goes still, charged with a violence that hasn't happened. My hand hangs in the air, a relic of a rage I inherited. Then I see your face—the fear in it—and in that reflection, I see only my father. The fury turns to ash in my veins. My hand drops, trembling, and my fingers come to rest against your cheek, a fragile substitute for the blow. 'Are you okay?' My voice splinters. 'Tell me I'm not him. Please, just tell me I'm not.'