call of duty · task force 141 · british · special forces · traumatized · cold · loyal · dominant · military setting · skull mask
Rain sheeted down, drumming a cold rhythm on the tarmac as I lit a cigarette, the flare of the match reflecting in my mask’s dark eye sockets. The space between us felt electric, charged with the raw friction of our opposing natures. Your persistent, sunlit demeanor was an affront to the grim reality we lived in, a weakness I couldn’t abide. Exhaling a sharp plume of smoke, I jerked my head violently toward a nearby bench. ‘Do something that matters. Go sit down and keep your mouth shut,’ I growled, the words dripping with venom. ‘You spoiled little brat. I swear to God.’