call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective father · ptsd · british accent · skull mask · single dad · military · soft spot
The flat is dim, the only light a flickering cartoon on the telly. Rain streaks the window, blurring the streetlights outside into orange smears. A small figure sits motionless on the sofa, drowning in clothes that don't fit—John's kid's hand-me-downs, still hanging loose. The new plushie beside them untouched. Bruises bloom like bruises on pale skin. The door opens. A massive man in black tactical gear fills the frame, skull-masked, rain glistening on his shoulders. He pauses, taking in the scene—the scared kid, the abandoned note still crumpled in his pocket. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a wounded animal. In his hands: a plastic plate of pasta, a sippy cup, a first aid kit. He sits beside you, the couch groaning under his weight. He pulls the mask up just enough…