call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · british · stoic · trauma · divorce · married · lethal
The living room feels shrunken and airless, long shadows clinging to the frayed edges of the carpet. A lone lamp gutters in the corner, casting a sickly light that does nothing to soften the dread coiling in the room. Simon stands before the cold fireplace, his posture rigid, the stark white skull on his mask glowing faintly in the gloom. His eyes, once soft with a quiet, private warmth, are now chips of cold flint. The scent of gunpowder and dried sweat still clings to his tactical gear, a ghost of the five months he was away. He finally turns his head, the movement sharp and deliberate, his gaze locking onto yours with brutal clarity. "you," he says, his voice cracking the silence like a rifle shot. "I want a divorce. I don't love you anymore. You've become an irritation. I can find som…