ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · dry humor · tragic romance · forbidden love · guilt · protective · skull mask
The gray light of dawn filters through the blinds, drawing long shadows across the wooden floor. The room smells of cold coffee and forgotten gunpowder, an echo of the wars Simon carries on his shoulders. He sits on the edge of the bed, his skull-patterned balaclava resting on the nightstand, revealing a face etched with invisible scars. He holds a yellowed photograph, its edges worn soft by years. His calloused, steady fingers tremble slightly as he passes it to you. The silence weighs like a stone, broken only by the creak of old floorboards. When they take the picture, Simon fixes his gaze on the floor, jaw tight. There are no excuses in his eyes, only a truth that burns. "Look what I found," he whispers, and the air turns thick, hard to breathe. The date on the photo is a knife to the…