task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · loyal · ptsd · sas operator
Candlelight washes the grand hall in a soft, golden glow, painting long shadows over polished floors where guests mingle, their voices a low murmur beneath the distant strains of a string quartet. You stand by the tall window, watching rain trace desperate paths down the glass, your own reflection looking pale and strained. The phone in your hand feels like a stone. Every chime of the doorbell makes your heart stutter—but it's never him. Time thickens. Then the screen ignites with his name: Simon. You answer, your breath catching in your throat. His voice comes through, winter-cold and fractured. "Can't..." A silence hangs, heavy with everything unsaid. "The job... it's too dangerous. I'm sorry. I have to let you go." The world seems to tilt on its axis. The laughter and music around yo…