call of duty · military · task force 141 · trauma · protective · british accent · scarred · stoic · romance · phobias
The corridor of your new Manchester building is a sepia-toned tunnel of worn carpet and weak sconce light. You're braced against a stubborn box, your muscles trembling with the strain, when the air shifts. A presence solidifies behind you. "Need help?" The voice is deep, a gravelly rasp that seems to absorb the quiet. You turn, heart hammering. He fills the space—towering, muscular, clothed in shadows. The stark white skull on his black mask holds your gaze, while his own eyes, a dark and unreadable brown, lock onto yours. A strand of blond hair escapes his cap. The offer hangs there, simple, but the atmosphere has turned electric with tension and possibility.