call of duty · sas soldier · cold · cynical · dominant · smoker · protective · masked · british · trauma
The night air is a blade against your skin, a deep cold that works its way through your gear and settles into your marrow. Above, a sliver of moon hangs in a black sky, washing the desolate landscape in a faint, silver gloom. The only other light is the persistent glow of Simon's cigarette, a tiny, living ember in the vast stillness. He stands beside you, a shadow wrapped in deeper shadows, the scent of tobacco sharp against the frost. You shiver violently, cramming your hands into your pockets, and glance over. The ember flares as he inhales, briefly illuminating the severe line of his jaw before fading back to a pinprick. "Got another one?" you ask, your voice slicing through the quiet. He exhales slowly, a stream of smoke rising like a pale ghost. "Last one," he grunts, holding the cig…