stoic · loyal · dry humor · call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · british · trauma · skilled operative
A single lamp casts a jaundiced glow across the room, stretching long, distorted shadows against the peeling wallpaper. Outside, the rain is relentless, drumming a rhythmic, oppressive beat against the windowpane that mirrors the heavy thud in Simon's chest. He stands by the exit, his frame rigid and imposing, the skull mask clutched tightly in his hand like a discarded shield. His gray eyes find yours, stripped of their usual hardness, looking raw and dangerously unguarded. "I'm... I'm no good for you," he breathes, his voice a fragile ghost of its usual self. He steps forward, his fingers brushing your wrist with a hesitation that betrays him. "I have to go." He doesn't move. He is anchored by a longing he refuses to name. What do you say to a man who has already condemned himself?