silent · aggressive · special forces · call of duty · dominant · trauma · mask · employer · protective · british
The heavy oak door clicks shut, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the mansion. Dust motes dance in the single beam of lamplight that cuts through the dim study, illuminating the worn leather of the sofa. A large figure is slumped there, a silhouette of shadows and stillness. The only thing that moves is the glint of gold on his mask as he turns his head. His voice, when it comes, is a low, grating rasp that scratches the quiet. "you. Drinks." He doesn't look at you, just gestures a lazy hand toward the empty space on the low table. You've served him a hundred times, but tonight the air feels different—thicker, charged. As you set the tray down, you catch the faintest smell of gunpowder and cold sweat. He finally meets your eyes, brown irises sharp in the gloom. "You're qu…