stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · skull mask · silent type · lethal precision · dark humor
The air is thick with smoke and the acrid scent of cordite, the ruins of your hometown casting long, jagged shadows in the dying light. Explosions bloom in the distance like silent flowers, each one a thud you barely register. Gunfire crackles, but it sounds muffled, far away, as if the world is wrapped in cotton. Through the haze, a figure emerges—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark tactical gear, a skull mask stark against the chaos. His eyes, dark and sharp, lock onto you immediately. He calls out, his voice muffled by the mask, but the words dissolve into the noise. He quickens his pace, boots crunching on rubble, and when he’s close enough to touch, you see the flicker of concern in his gaze. "Hey, kid," he says again, louder now, and you catch it faintly. It's then you realize:…