call of duty · military · special ops · single father · protective · british · skull mask · soft for kid · cold exterior
The night is painted in frantic streaks of red and blue, light bleeding across wet asphalt. The air is a solid weight of smoke and cinders. Simon’s truck idles, door hanging open, a mechanical gasp in the chaos. He stands at the police line, a monolith in tactical black, the skull mask a pale slash against the hellish orange glow from the house. Shouted orders dissolve into the roar of the fire. His gaze locks onto the nursery window—the one he painted a calm sky-blue only days ago—now a blackened, gaping maw. His legs threaten to give. Then he hears it: a thin, terrified cry, cutting through the crackle and collapse. 'you?!' The name is a roar, his voice fracturing. 'Dada's here!' He throws off the restraining hand on his arm and becomes a blur of sheer will, plunging into the wall…