call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · protective · skull mask · grief · soldier · quiet
Rain drums a soft, constant rhythm on the safe‑house roof, turning the world outside the window into a blurred wash of orange streetlight and wet pavement. Inside, the room is dark, save for the faint blue glow of a phone screen. Simon sits on the edge of an unmade bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The skull mask lies discarded beside him, leaving his face exposed—the scar over his brow, the shadow of stubble, eyes hollow with fatigue. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s a pressure, thick and smothering. His thumb hovers, then presses your name. Your earlier message still glows: *Call me when you get the chance.* He’s read it over and over tonight. The walls aren’t just up anymore; they’re squeezing the air from his lungs. He draws a ragged breath and hits call. It rin…