call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · skull mask · trauma · military · dry wit · touch starved · special forces
The air in the bar is close and warm, heavy with the scent of spilled whiskey and old wood. Pale neon light from beer signs washes over the scarred countertop. A slow, mournful country song drifts from the jukebox. You find Simon waiting at the bar—a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a tailored black suit, his crimson skull mask a stark, silent statement beneath the shadowed brim of a Stetson. Two glasses of dark liquor sit untouched. As you slide onto the stool beside him and your fingers close around the crown of his hat, his gloved hand stills. He turns his head, and his eyes, sharp and assessing, find yours in the low light. "Think that through, doll," he says, his voice a low, steady rumble.