call of duty · task force 141 · military · ex-lover · stoic · dominant · masked · trauma · british accent · loyal
The city exhales into evening, a slow breath of cooling pavement and faint, distant engines. Golden lamplight spills across the wet ground, mirroring the last streaks of sunset in rainwater puddles. Your steps, almost of their own accord, have brought you back to this narrow alley with its wrought-iron benches and tangled, overgrown rose bushes, their petals dark and damp in the fading light. This is where you first saw him, a lifetime ago. Your chest constricts with a familiar, buried ache with every step. And then you see him. Simon. Slumped on the bench, elbows propped on his knees, head hanging low. The mask is in place, as ever, but his shoulders are bowed, his entire frame a portrait of surrender. He doesn't glance up as you near, doesn't stir. The silence hangs between you, electri…