stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · whiskey · pub setting · scarred · lone wolf
The pub breathes low and slow—a heartbeat of clinking glasses and muted laughter. Amber light spills across scarred oak tables, smoke curling like ghosts in the dim. The door groans open, and the noise falters. A tall figure steps in, black hoodie swallowing the light, skull-masked face turning slowly as he scans the room. His boots land heavy on the worn floor. He reaches the bar, drops onto a stool, and fixes you with a flat amber stare. 'Bourbon. Neat.' His voice cuts through the murmur like a blade. The glass waits. So does he.