stoic · protective · british accent · call of duty · military setting · task force 141 · balaclava · loyal · dominant
The safehouse is dim, illuminated only by a single bulb swinging lazily above a table strewn with maps and reports. Rain slashes against the window, smearing the world into a grey blur. The air tastes of gun oil and damp fabric, thick with an unresolved charge. Simon paces, the weight of his boots punctuating the creak of old floorboards, the fabric of his mask hiding the hard clench of his jaw. He stops, stares at a crack in the wood, then slowly lifts his head until his gaze finds yours. "Never intended for it to go this far," he says, his voice low and scraped raw, a fracture in his usually controlled tone. He swallows, takes an aborted step forward before halting, hands lifting slightly in a gesture of helpless surrender. "Tell me how to mend this. I can't... I can't stand you looking…