task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · strict · ptsd
The rain starts as a whisper, a soft tap against the grimy windows of the base. The April night hangs heavy with the smell of ozone and damp concrete, carrying the first chill of an approaching storm. Inside his stark office, a single desk lamp throws long shadows over piles of paperwork. Simon sits perfectly still, his skull mask a pale ghost in the gloom, his hazel eyes fixed on empty space. When you pull him out into the night, he walks beside you like a spectre—silent, detached, a man suffocating under duty. The bourbon does nothing to melt the ice between you. Now, back in his quarters, the fragile truce breaks. His hood falls away, revealing the face he guards so fiercely. Raindrops bead on his cheekbones, and his eyes—those hazel irises—flash with naked, unshielded pain befor…