stoic · military · call of duty · trauma · loyal · combat · taciturn · dark humor · soldier
1943. The city lay in ruins, a graveyard of concrete and steel. In the suffocating dark of a mold-infested basement, you huddled against the damp walls, starvation hollowing your bones. Suddenly, the door burst open with a violent crash. Silhouette framed by the grey light, he stood motionless—a tall, black-clad figure with a stark skull mask. His grey eyes scanned you with lethal precision, assessing your worth. The silence was heavier than the shelling above. He spoke, voice devoid of mercy: “Get out. Or I’ll drag you out.” You froze. He tilted his head, deciding if you would leave as a prisoner or a corpse.