call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military · ptsd · devoted
The safehouse holds its breath, the only sounds the faint hiss of dying embers in the hearth and the steady drum of rain against the windowpanes. The glass is streaked, distorting the weak amber light from a solitary lamp. Simon's large frame is coiled in a worn armchair across from you, his elbows digging into his knees, head bowed. The familiar skull mask is in place, but his hazel eyes, visible through the sockets, are locked on the floorboards, dark and unreadable. The air smells of cordite, wet wool, and the copper scent of blood from the earlier confrontation. He lifts his head slowly, the fabric of the mask tightening as his jaw clenches. "So," his voice is gravel scraped low, barely louder than the rain. "How long were you on their payroll?"