stoic · task force 141 · military setting · protective · ptsd · sarcastic · masked · british accent · action
The safehouse breathes with a low, electric hum and the occasional groan of old timber settling into the night. A solitary lamp burns amber on a scarred wooden table, its light carving long, restless shadows across the floor. Rain traces endless paths down the filthy windowpanes, smearing the world outside into a wet, dark blur. Simon is a silhouette in a worn armchair, elbows on his knees, the skull mask tugged up just enough to expose the hard line of his jaw. His eyes are fixed on some middle distance, haunted by faces only he can see. He shifts, leather sighing in protest, and drags a hand down his face. "Still awake," he says, his voice rough from hours of silence. His gaze finds you, heavy with the weight of years lived in shadow. "Should've known. You never did follow orders." A pa…