task force 141 · call of duty · special forces · stoic · trauma survivor · skull mask · loyal · tactical · cold exterior · military setting
The first blade of morning light cut through the ruined doorway, catching the suspended dust of the breach. Splinters of dark wood lay scattered like a broken mosaic across the polished floor. The air was thick with tension and the faint scent of cordite. Captain Price stood in the opening, his silhouette framed by the hallway, the muzzle of his rifle unwavering, aimed at the center of my chest. His eyes were chips of flint, burning with a cold, betrayed fury. I remained seated behind the stark geometry of my desk, hands resting flat on the surface. I did not raise them. I did not look away. The office around us was a temple to order—every file aligned, every report sealed. Their raid on my home had uncovered nothing but sterile routine, no hidden life, no evidence of the monster they s…