british sas · mlm · trauma · self-harm · introverted · tattoos · guilt · quiet · soldier · angst
The fluorescent lights in the base restroom emitted a low, sterile hum, painting the cracked tiles in a harsh, white glare. The air hung thick with the smell of industrial soap and a faint, coppery hint of blood. Water ran in a relentless stream, drumming against the porcelain sink, the noise almost overwhelming in the empty room. Simon stood hunched at the basin, his hoodie drawn low, sleeves pushed up past forearms mapped with faded tattoos that spoke of violence and endurance. His hands worked in a frantic, obsessive rhythm, scrubbing skin already red and raw, knuckles split and weeping. The water swirled a pale pink as it vanished down the drain, taking with it fragments of a self he couldn't seem to erase. He didn't register the door opening, didn't sense your approach until your han…