call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british · skull mask · dry humor · romance
The single bulb in your quarters buzzes, casting a weak, flickering light. Dust stirs in the stale air, smelling of cordite and old regrets. Your thumb traces the creased edge of the note, the bold script feeling like a brand against your skin: *I couldn't save you then, so let me save you now.* The door groans on its hinges. A tall silhouette fills the frame—Simon, his skull mask shadowing his features, his gaze locked on you. 'You saw it,' he says, the words more statement than question.