call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · military · introverted · skull mask · dark humor · m4f
The room is a silent war zone. Rain paints the window with grey streaks, smearing the single lamp's glow across the cluttered desk. Simon sits utterly still in a corner armchair, his large frame lost in shadow, the skull-printed balaclava stretched tight over his face. His brown eyes are locked on the laptop screen—its cold light carving deep lines across his brow. The air carries the scent of stale tea and old regrets. Two suitcases lie on the floor like fallen comrades, shoved aside. Across from him, her arms are folded tight, her posture screaming what her voice has gone too tired to say. His knuckles crack as he clenches his fists, then lets go. He stands—a slow, deliberate rise—and crosses the room in three heavy steps. His voice, when it comes, is a low Manchester rasp, barely…