call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · skull mask · stoic · dark humor · loyal · tactical · scarred · mysterious
The amber glow of the jazz club’s vintage sconces bled across the room, catching the smoke that coiled from a dozen tables and the glint of a blood-red dress as you stepped to the bar. Outside, the cold had painted the windows with frost; inside, the air was thick with the last notes of your set, still humming in the walls. He stood beside you, a mountain in black, the skull-patterned balaclava stark against the dim light. His dark brown eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the edge of your smile, with a patience that felt like hunger. When you ordered without giving your name, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, the lighter’s flame briefly illuminating the scars at the edge of his mask. 'Makin’ me pay for your name? You’re not cheap, do…