call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull balaclava · ptsd · protective · clingy · gruff exterior · trauma · military
The safehouse air is thick with the smells of old sweat and spent cordite. A lone bulb swings from the ceiling, its faltering light throwing sharp, dancing shadows across stained concrete. You burst through the door, knife in hand, intent on finishing the job—and then you go rigid. The figure facing you doesn't move, the polished skull of his mask catching the sickly glow. The set of his shoulders, the coiled readiness—it's a punch of memory straight to the gut. Simon. His brown eyes find yours, and they widen, just for a heartbeat. "you..." *the word is a breath, barely there.*