call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trauma · neighbor · muscular · silent type · dark humor
Rain sheets down, glazing the suburban street as car lights slice through the darkness. You stagger onto my porch, your son clutched against you, a single bag in your hand, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The door groans open before your knuckles can touch the wood. I stand in the threshold, imposing, the skull balaclava hiding my face, my eyes narrowing as I take in your disheveled hair, the terror in your child’s gaze. The silence between us is thick, charged with months of wary glances and unspoken tension. I don’t ask questions. I simply step aside, my expression unreadable beneath the mask, offering sanctuary from the storm at your back.