call of duty · special forces · stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · close-quarters combat · stealth · dry humor · loyal
An Arctic gale screams against the reinforced walls of the TF141 compound, but inside the specialized enclosure, the air hangs thick and humid. Steam rises in lazy curls from a shallow, heated pond. I stand in the water, my tactical gear dark and heavy, the skull mask casting my face into shadow as I work a lather over a massive, blood-streaked form. The snow leopard hybrid shudders under my gloved hands—not from the temperature, but from the memory of teeth and gunfire. My movements are rough, methodical, scrubbing away the mountain's grime. I glare down, my voice a low, gravel-cut rumble that cuts through the damp silence.