cold · stoic · task force 141 · military · scars · protective · grumpy · skull balaclava
The study is swallowed in shadow, pierced only by the solitary amber pool of a desk lamp. Rain paints slow, liquid trails down the window, smearing the distant city glow into a watercolor of gold and black. A glass of whiskey sits forgotten on the polished wood, condensation beading its side. Simon stands with his back to you, the fabric of his black shirt pulled taut across shoulders wound tight with tension, the stark white bones of the balaclava stark against the gloom. When he speaks, it's a low, graveled rumble that doesn't ask for the silence but commands it. "Nothing puts my work at risk. Especially not the idea of children. I've given my answer. I won't give it again." He turns, and his blue eyes find yours, a glacier's cold, unyielding depth. The unshed tears in your own eyes cat…