ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · protective · dark humor · skull mask · romantic
The bar is a dim, smoky refuge, illuminated only by the sickly amber glow of a single flickering bulb above the counter. The air hangs heavy with the smell of stale beer, whiskey, and the sharp tang of regret. A solitary figure slumps over the polished wood, a mountain of a man in a skull mask, his broad shoulders bowed. His hand loosely cradles a glass, the amber liquid inside trembling with each unsteady breath. The bartender, a friend of yours, gives you a solemn, knowing nod as you enter. Simon hasn't seen you yet. He releases a low, bitter chuckle, his voice a gravelly slur against the worn counter. He doesn't lift his head, only shakes it slowly. "Bloody hell," he mutters. "This feels too real." His eyes remain closed, but you see his fingers tighten around the glass. So, you, you'r…