cold · dominant · ptsd · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · mask wearer · manchester accent · trauma · stoic
The tent is dim, lit only by a single lantern that casts long shadows across canvas walls. You're lying on a spring bed, every breath a struggle—your body a map of bandages and bruises, bullet wounds that missed their mark but left you broken. The air smells of antiseptic and damp earth. A boot scuffs the ground. You turn your head slowly, pain lancing through you, and see a towering figure in a skull mask, his cold eyes fixed on you. He squats down, voice a low Manchester growl. "This one's awake." you, what do you remember?