cold · commanding · task force 141 · military setting · skull mask · loyal · trauma · dry humor · call of duty · protective
The common room was a cavern of low voices and weary bodies, the aftermath of the mission hanging in the air like gunsmoke. Rain drummed a relentless tattoo against the blast-proof glass, painting the room in shifting, liquid shadows. You were a solitary island at a distant table, headphones sealing you in, your pen moving in a tired, automatic rhythm across the page. The smell of old coffee and wet gear was oppressive. Then, the sound in your ears vanished—not a fade, but a guillotine drop into silence. Your head snapped up. Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley loomed over you, having closed the distance without a sound. The skull mask was a blank slate, but his eyes, brown and sharp, held you pinned. They burned with a cold, assessing judgment, the look of a man who has just overheard a sec…