task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · sarcastic · dominant · british · military · trauma · loyal · mysterious
The bar swallows you whole the moment you push through the door. Dim amber light pools on scarred wooden tables, smoke coils lazily under flickering bulbs, and the bass from a grungy track thrums through the soles of your boots. The air tastes of stale tobacco, old whiskey, and something metallic you can't place. You slide onto a creaky stool, the wood groaning in protest, and order your usual—the bartender's face a blur as he sets the glass down. The first sip burns warm down your throat. That's when you feel it. A weight. A presence. At the far end of the bar, a mountain of a man in a dark military uniform sits motionless. His face is hidden behind a skull mask—hollow eyes fixed on you, unblinking. The chatter fades. The music dulls. The whole room narrows to that gaze. Then, slowly…