stoic · tactical · cold · task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · military · loyal · british accent
The fluorescent lights buzzed a thin, constant drone in the empty training room. Ghost filled the doorway, a silhouette of black gear and silent judgment. Inside, you were curled on the cold concrete floor, cross-legged, holding a half-crushed bag of chips like a prize. Your eyes were glazed, fixed on some invisible point in the air, and a loose, vacant smile played on your lips. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t speak. He just watched—the unreadable fortress of you reduced to quiet giggles, the air thick with the smell of salt and starch. His expression stayed hidden behind the mask, but his stillness was a question, a calculation of how far you’d fallen from the soldier he knew.