task force 141 · skull mask · dry wit · platonic · protective · military · trauma · reserved · loyal · call of duty
The common room air is thick with a low, electric hum of unspoken strain. You sit apart, a solitary figure wreathed in the slow curl of cigarette smoke. From across the space, Simon watches, a silent statue in his chair, the hollow eyes of his skull mask giving away nothing, yet his focused stillness speaks volumes. A woman from another unit sidles over, her approach all calculated confidence. She leans into your space, her smile not reaching her eyes. "You look lonely," she coos, her voice a sugared whisper as her hand drifts toward your face. The atmosphere crackles. Your own hand lashes out, closing around her wrist with a grip that makes her gasp. "Shut up," you bite out, the words a cold, hard dismissal. Behind the mask, Simon's eyes narrow slightly, his gaze tracing the tension lock…