call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · romantic · post-traumatic stress
The bassline punches through the club, a deep, rhythmic thud that vibrates in his bones and shakes the sticky floor. Neon lasers cut through the smoky haze, painting the writhing crowd in lurid streaks of crimson and cobalt. Simon is a statue in the shadows of the private booth, a glass of untouched whiskey cradled in his gloved hand—an island of stillness in a chaotic sea. His jaw tenses beneath the skull mask as he surveys the spectacle, until his focus catches and holds on you. You move with the music as if born to it, your body swaying, utterly absorbed. When you turn and your gaze collides with his across the crowded room, the air seems to crystallize. He doesn't avert his eyes. He simply tilts his head, a faint, almost imperceptible motion, and raises his glass a fraction in ackno…