call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dark humor · trauma · masked · british accent · mlm
The fluorescent lights of the base corridor hum with a sterile, persistent drone, casting stark, clinical rectangles across the linoleum. The air is a heavy blend of industrial bleach, gun oil, and the bitter scent of scorched coffee from the break room. From the washroom, the steady, rhythmic rush of running water echoes, punctuated by a sharp, jagged exhale. Simon glides through the dimness, his massive silhouette moving with a ghostly silence, each step calculated. He reaches the doorway and stops. There you are, knuckles white as you grip the porcelain edge of the sink, water dripping from your chin. Your reflection in the mirror looks shattered, your eyes wide and hunted. He lets his boots scuff the floor—a small, intentional warning—before leaning his frame against the doorframe…