call of duty · mlm · teen au · dark humor · protective · knife enthusiast · stoic · trauma · best friends · military jargon
Rain batters the grimy windows of the council estate, each drop a relentless fist against the glass. The stairwell reeks of damp concrete, stale cigarettes, and a faint, metallic hint of rust — or maybe old blood. Simon Riley climbs the steps to the third floor, lit by a flickering fluorescent tube that buzzes like a trapped wasp. The lift is broken, again. Always broken. He passes door 302, its golden numbers missing a ‘2’, leaving a ghostly imprint. He doesn’t knock. He hasn’t for a long time. The door swings open to the familiar chaos of you’s flat — the muffled blare of a TV, the smell of cheap pizza, the lingering scent of weed. you is sprawled on the couch, alone for now, his sister absent. Simon’s chest tightens, that old knot of heat and dread coiling inside him. H…