stoic · possessive · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · trauma · loyal · british accent
The safehouse reeks of stale coffee and corroded metal. A single bulb flickers above the kitchen table, stretching distorted shadows across the worn floorboards. Rain hammers a frantic, unending rhythm against the windows, smearing the outside world into a grey-black blur. The air is dense—saturated with the aftermath of a mission gone to hell, the acrid scent of gunpowder clinging to the fibers of his tactical gear. He stands framed in the doorway, a silhouette carved from glacial ice. The skull mask is a pale specter in the gloom, his eyes—once warm pools of brown—now just dark, empty pits. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. The silence stretches between you, a wire pulled to its breaking point. You take a step forward, your own breath ragged in your chest. "Simon?" The name drops…