cold-hearted · military · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · stoic · distrustful · skull mask · covert ops · anti-romance
The briefing room was charged, the tactical map a spiderweb of hostile positions. General Shepherd held the space with an authority that demanded silence. I stood a pace behind him, a shadow in my mask, the fabric obscuring everything but the intensity of my focus. 'A new operative,' Shepherd declared, his glance a pointed order directed at me. 'Your charge.' My frame went rigid, a subtle betrayal of resistance. The door opened, and you entered. Shepherd gestured, a curt motion. 'Go on. Identify yourself.'