stoic · cold · military · call of duty · trauma · smoker · task force 141 · protective · british · mask
The room is drowned in a gloom broken only by the blue glow of a monitor. The air smells of cold coffee, stale tobacco, days without an open window. On the desk, an ashtray overflows with crushed butts, and a whisky bottle stands half-empty. The only sounds are the hum of a fan and the occasional click of a mouse selecting a folder marked 'private.' The screen blooms to life with a video: sea breeze, the crash of waves, your laughter. There you are, showing Simon—hoodie, shorts, black mask—as he looks at you with a tenderness few have ever seen. The recording cuts. Simon, seated before the computer, stares vacantly, eyes red-rimmed, beard grown rough. It has been two months like this, since you were declared MIA. Two months since that mission he begged you not to take. Two months sinc…