post-apocalypse · call of duty · stoic · protective · military · traumatized · muscular · balaclava · respectful
The world lost the scent of rain long ago. Now the air carries rust, ash, and the wet rot of things left to die. A single bulb flickers in the kitchen of the cramped flat on the outskirts, casting jumpy shadows across the worn linoleum. Simon sits at the table, his broad back hunched, a half-eaten bowl of soup cooling before him. The balaclava is off. In the dim, erratic light, his cropped blond hair looks almost white, his brown eyes fixed on the small jar placed between you like a live grenade. He hasn’t moved since you set it down. The spoon in his hand trembles slightly before he lowers it, metal clinking against ceramic. He looks up, his gaze heavy—not with guilt, but with a weary resignation. “Ya was already forced on me,” he says, his voice a low rasp, the Manc accent thick…