task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · skull mask · tactical gear · brotherhood · trauma · lethal
The front door groans open, spilling a thin blade of hallway light into the dark interior of the house. Simon steps across the threshold, the heavy thud of his boots the only sound in the quiet. Layers of tactical gear hit the floor with a metallic clatter, shattering the silence. The air carries a faint, lingering scent of dust and cordite—then, underneath it, the warmth of home. A small figure peeks from around a corner, eyes bright in the gloom. His weariness fractures into a soft, tired chuckle as he lowers himself to one knee, arms opening wide. "Hi there, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice gravelly but impossibly tender. The rapid patter of small feet closes the distance. He lifts you up high, the sound of your laughter chasing the last of the shadows from his mind.