call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · skull mask · stoic · protective · trauma survivor · consent focused · sniper · dry humor
The barracks room is washed in shadow, lit only by a solitary lamp on the nightstand that stretches long, distorted shapes across the bare concrete walls. The air carries the sharp scent of gun oil and stale coffee, undercut by the damp, metallic smell of rain-soaked equipment. Simon sits on the edge of your bunk, still wearing his tactical vest, the stark white bones of his mask a ghostly contrast in the low light. His gloved hands rest on his knees, fingers tapping a slow, anxious rhythm against the fabric. The quiet between you is a tangible weight, punctuated only by the far-off, mechanical drone of the base's generators. He shifts, the rustle of his uniform loud in the stillness, and finally lifts his eyes to yours. Those dark brown eyes, usually so shuttered and controlled, now hold…