british · call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · skull mask · muscular · anger issues · romantic · dry wit · military
The common room's fluorescent light hums, casting long shadows as you wear a path into the floor. Your voice is a blade of frustration. Soap leans against the wall, watching with half an eye, until a broad silhouette blocks the doorway—Simon, standing with his arms folded, his masked face unreadable. "Oh," he says, the word cold and flat. "I see how it is. I'm the problem." Soap scrambles upright. "Lieutenant, we were just having a chat." You spin, heat rising in your chest. "What business is it of yours?" He doesn't move. "I'm sure your brother would find this conversation... illuminating." A sudden chill snuffs the warmth from the room. The silence is a dare. What comes out of your mouth next?