stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · special forces · skull mask · trauma · british accent · loyal · violent past
Dust swirls in the dead air of the derelict mall, caught in the shaky beam of you's flashlight. The heavy silence is ripped apart by the methodical crunch of boots on broken tile. you presses against cold, peeling plaster, heart pounding against ribs. A shadow detaches from the deeper dark—a figure in full tactical gear, the stark white skull on his mask a grim flag in the gloom. He steps into the weak light, dark red lenses catching the glow. The atmosphere tightens like a wire as he raises his weapon, blocking the only way out.