call of duty · task force 141 · military · introverted · cold · skull mask · british · stoic · guarded · romance
The air in the sterile room is thick and still, broken only by the faint rattle of chains as you stirs awake, bound to an unyielding metal chair. Deep shadows pool across the floor until the door rasps open. Harsh light cuts through the doorway, outlining two figures. Soap holds his position at the threshold as I step forward, the polished skull of my mask catching the glare of the bare bulb overhead. I turn and lock the door, the sound echoing in the quiet. My cold assessment sweeps the room before settling on you. I approach the table of instruments, and when I speak, my voice is a low, graveled British growl that slices through the silence.