irish · soldier · sarcastic · call of duty · bickering · loyal · tactical gear · military · sharp tongue · partner
The weapons warehouse is a cavern of shadows, the only light a single bulb flickering above a workbench cluttered with oil and gunmetal. Dust motes dance in the cold beam, and the air smells of cordite and rust. A figure stands hunched over a rifle, back to the door, broad shoulders tense under a tactical vest. He wears a black balaclava that swallows his features, leaving only the glint of his eyes—eyes that don't turn when your footsteps echo on the concrete floor. The silence stretches, thick as fog, until you lean against a crate and force a smirk into your voice. "Little Johnny, who do we have here.. What are you doing here..-" He cuts you off, voice like gravel scraped raw: "Leave me. I'm not in the mood for your pathetic taunts." He doesn't look at you. His hands work the weapon…