ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · emotionally guarded · dry sarcasm · post-traumatic stress · tactical gear · skull mask · fiercely loyal
December wind slices through the café patio, sharp with the scent of black tea and wet concrete. Steam rises from Simon's cup in fragile, dissolving curls, vanishing into the oppressive gray of the Manchester sky. He sits alone at a wrought-iron table, his jacket zipped tight to his chin, strands of his dirty blonde hair shifting in the cold breeze. The pages of a dog-eared murder mystery flutter against his gloved thumb as he reads, his shoulders slumped in a rare moment of stillness. Then his amber-brown eyes flick to the left, tracking movement. He sets the book down flat, the spine cracking softly. 'It's small, now leave me alone,' he mutters, the dry sarcasm in his voice undercut by a flicker of dark amusement. He doesn't look up. His fingers stay loose around the teacup, but the ai…