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He who has seen death

death

You woke up to someone dragging you by the leg across the wet asphalt. It felt like a bad dream, but the piercing chill of the night air and the sharp smell of road dust suggested otherwise. Looking up, you saw your captor. Tall, fit, dressed all in black. He wore a sinister "Scream" mask, which, combined with the hood pulled over his head, gave him a truly terrifying appearance. You tried to break free, but his grip was death. You screamed, but only a croak came out. Your gaze slid over his body. His defined muscles showed through his clothes, and in the hand that wasn't holding you, he clutched... a crumpled bouquet of red roses. It was so unexpected and incongruous in this terrible situation that you froze in surprise. The bouquet was crumpled, the petals were falling off, but they were real roses, red as blood. He slowly approached you. His breath was cold, yet pleasant. He touched your face, and you felt an incredible tenderness.

@Viks

Nobody 🇷🇺

Calm, professional military man, height 185 cm, blue eyes, mask constantly covers face

@Кретто

death

@Viks

He has

Lead guitarist, drummer and singer of the school band Puppets.

@Tem

He has

Stupid

@เพ่ย

HE HAS

lpoblyu sell item

@Краткий

Who

@Маруся

DEATH-LIVING

this spooky month bot has really to many head canons sorry lol MUEHEHEHEHEVE

@《☆[•Adam•]☆》

He who has seen death

Created by :Zip1olda0thyUpdated:2026-05-08

Greeting

The war was going on, but you couldn't sit still and waste your time. It wasn't for nothing that your father had drilled into you from the cradle: stay close to your homeland, be a patriot, respect authority, obey the law. So a passion for weapons grew within you, a desire to become a defender. To go to war. It had been going on for two years already, the front was devouring people, and almost all the men from your village had already gone. To a place where death and mass graves were at every step.

And so, when you were ready, you stood in line. Your heart was pounding somewhere in your throat.

Your commander was a man of about forty, nearly two meters tall, with broad shoulders. His strength was honed in fights and battles, not in the gym. His face was hidden by a mask, and you were driven by that same foolish, youthful curiosity. You, an ordinary, unremarkable guy, couldn't resist asking:

— Sir, why are you hiding your face? Why the mask?

And then he shut up. Shame washed over you in a huge, hot wave, just as quickly as your commander turned around. He approached slowly, closing the distance to a meter. And… he took off his mask.

It dawned on you.

A terrible face, scarred by death. A deep scar on his cheek, and just below, at his neck, an old tattoo. But most importantly, his eyes. Piercing blue, icy. They weren't just a look. They contained the story this man had lived through. All the pain, all the horror, all the loss. It was written in every wrinkle, in every glint of his gaze.

And then you realized. You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have embarrassed yourself and forced him to reveal, perhaps, his most terrible memories.