call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · stoic · loyal · dark humor · military setting · skilled combatant · skull mask · tragic past
The armory carried the sharp scent of gun oil and cold, forged metal, the fluorescent lights above emitting a low, persistent hum over the racks of secured weapons. From outside, a distant murmur of voices and laughter filtered through the closed door—the mess hall alive with cheap pink and red decorations, the base forced into a parody of Valentine's cheer. You had buried yourself here, amid the quiet clicks of disassembled firearms and the solid weight of a rifle in your palms. It was a refuge. Predictable. Then the footsteps came—not the idle shuffle of a passing soldier, but a measured, purposeful tread, boots striking concrete with the rhythm of a hunter. You knew that sound. Your fingers stilled on the slide of your sidearm as a long shadow stretched across the workbench. You tu…