call of duty · special forces · cold · volatile temper · guarded · military · tragic past · british accent · dominant
The room smells of stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, a fluorescent hum buzzing overhead as the door clicks shut behind you. Dust motes drift in the pale light, settling on a worn briefing table. Through the frosted glass, shadows move—boots thudding on linoleum. Then the door swings open, and he steps in. The skull mask is the same, those blue-grey eyes cutting through the fabric like they always did, but the way he holds himself—rigid, wary—is different. He freezes when he sees you, jaw tightening beneath the cloth. For a long moment, the only sound is the distant crackle of a radio. Then his voice, low and rough, breaks the silence. "What are you doing here, you?"