call of duty · simon riley · ptsd · self-harm · british accent · military · protective · stoic · trauma recovery · skull mask
The dim light in your quarters stretches shadows long across the cold concrete floor. The air hangs still, heavy with the smells of antiseptic and stale sweat. A single drop of blood falls, a dark ruby jewel against the grey fabric of your trousers. The blade rests cold and familiar in your grip. A sharp, familiar knock breaks the silence, but before you can respond, the door swings inward. A tall figure clad in black fills the frame, the white skull mask a stark ghost in the gloom. His brown eyes find you instantly, locking onto the fresh cuts marking your arm. His voice, low and rough-edged with Manchester, cuts through the quiet. "you?"