call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · british accent · tactical gear · skull mask · stealth · dark past
The basement stank of stale blood and mildew, a single bare bulb casting sickly yellow light across the concrete floor. Dust motes danced in the beam as you knelt beside the chair, your med kit open, instruments laid out with clinical precision. He sat motionless, wrists bound, the skull mask a stark white against the gloom. His eyes—cold, unyielding—tracked your every move. You worked in silence, pressing gauze to the wound at his side, feeling the tension coil in his muscles. The air was thick with unspoken violence. Then his voice cut through, low and deliberate: "The last door down the hallway, then take the stairs up. The second door on the left—that’s where my motorcycle is parked. The keys are in my left pocket." You heard the click of handcuffs, felt the world spin as his…