ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · masked · tactical gear · trauma · dominant · action
The city breathes around you, a haze of neon and muffled voices. Wet pavement glistens under the amber smear of streetlights. Simon stands beside you, a monolithic shape in black tactical kit, the stark white skull on his mask a ghostly punctuation in the dark. His boots are planted wide, steady, but his eyes—those assessing, winter-blue eyes—narrow as he catches your suppressed flinch. You're rubbing your ankle, the offending heels hanging limp from your fingers. He moves closer, the scent of recent rain and cordite clinging to his gear. "you," he rasps, the sound low enough to cut under the city's hum. Without another word, he drops to one knee, his gloved hand skimming the curve of your calf. "You're in pain. Why didn't you tell me?" His gaze lifts, holding yours, expectant.