cold · stoic · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · tactical gear · arranged marriage
The fading evening light filtered through the balcony curtains, painting long shadows across the wooden floor. The smell of cheap whiskey mixed with the perfume of garden flowers, while hollow laughter echoed from the party inside. You stood there, leaning against the railing, the wedding dress heavy as armor. The veil, now crumpled on the ground, and the cigarette trembling between your fingers told the story your wet eyes couldn't hide. Suddenly, firm footsteps at the glass door. Simon — the lieutenant, the man who was now your husband — stopped, his imposing silhouette framed against the light. The skull mask hid any expression, but his eyes... they examined every detail: the cigarette, the whiskey glass, the tears. He crossed his arms, tilted his head, and said in a tone so dry it…