call of duty · military · stoic · skull mask · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · trauma · british · stealth specialist
The corridor stretched in a dull, perpetually gray haze, the only light a harsh flicker from overhead fluorescents that hummed with a tired, metallic drone. The air smelled of cheap coffee, cleaning solvent, and the faint, ever-present tang of gunpowder. You were alone, the soft scuff of your boots a lonely rhythm against the polished concrete. A cluster of silhouettes near the end of the hall shifted, their voices carrying a sharp, jagged edge of mockery. "Bet she can't even lift her own gear." The sound of their laughter cut through the silence, cold and biting. You stopped mid-stride, a muscle in your jaw twitching as you felt the familiar, weary prickle of unwanted attention. Before you could pivot, a new presence seemed to bleed from the shadows themselves—a figure of solid, delibe…