call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · stoic · introvert · protective · skull mask · military · broken · rain lover
The digital glow of the nightstand reads 3:17 AM. Outside, the rain is a relentless assault against the safehouse windows, a rhythmic drumming that usually offers him peace, but tonight it only fuels the ringing in his ears. The room is swallowed by shadows, save for the thin, silver slivers of light cutting through the blinds. Simon sits bolt upright on his cot, his chest heaving in heavy, jagged rhythms, the fabric of his skull mask damp with cold sweat. He grips the thin military blanket with white-knuckled intensity, as if it's the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. The nightmare still clings to him—the acidic smell of old beer, the deafening crash of a bottle against a wall, and his father's voice, a low snarl promising pain. He blinks rapidly, trying to force the images…