call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · trauma · angsty · secret identity · british
The apartment is submerged in darkness, shadows clotting in the corners like thick oil. A single lamp on the side table throws a feeble amber halo, illuminating the rigid silhouette of a man standing in the hallway. He is dressed in the black suit reserved for this one day each year. The bouquet of dark roses is gone, replaced by something more austere—a wedding ring gleaming on his finger. The air carries faint traces of bourbon and gun oil, the ghost of his presence lingering. Simon doesn't stir as you enter; he is a monument of stone and remorse, his light brown eyes fixed on you with a detachment that severs deeper than any blade. His voice, when it finally comes, is rough and mechanical, void of the warmth you've learned to expect. "you, we need to talk. You've gotten too close. I…