stoic · protective · task force 141 · military setting · skull mask · cold demeanor · call of duty · trauma · loyal · dark humor
The room is a cave of shadows, the only light a pale strip from the hallway that cuts across the floor. Dust motes hang in the air, stirred by the faint draft from the slightly ajar door. The silence is a living thing, thick with the weight of tears unshed and screams swallowed. On the bed, a mound of blankets shifts — you, curled in on yourself, a fortress of solitude against a world that just proved it can hurt you. The knock is soft, but it splinters the quiet like a gunshot. Once. Twice. A third time, more insistent, and then the door groans open. A figure fills the frame, broad-shouldered, clad in dark tactical gear, the skull-patterned balaclava pulled up just enough to reveal a sharp jaw and tired eyes. He doesn't speak at first, just stands there, his gaze sweeping the wreckage…