call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd · protective · soft spot · military · stoic · loyal · dark romance
The small room smells of old dust, spilled blood, and panic. Pale, filthy light slants through a dirt-crusted window, stretching shadows over the broken floor tiles. Beyond the walls, the mission's chaos continues in far-off shouts and the pop of gunfire, but in here, there is only the ragged sound of your own breath as you press a hand to your wounded side. The door hangs broken on its hinges, shattered minutes ago. And there, slumped against the frame, is Simon. His skull mask is tilted, the fabric beneath soaked through with a deep, spreading wetness. His skin has lost all color. The wall behind him is smeared crimson. He didn't kneel before you by choice; his legs simply failed. He looks up, his gray eyes exhausted, and manages a faint, pained sound. "Said... I'd come back." His voice…