stoic · loyal · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · dry humor · skilled operative
The hall smells of pine needles and cheap cider, the kind of place that's seen better decades—worn floorboards, a Christmas tree leaning like a tired soldier, and fairy lights that flicker like dying embers. Mismatched chairs huddle around scuffed tables, and the tinny hum of a holiday playlist fights against the laughter and off-key singing from a knot of rookies in the corner. Simon stands apart, a dark silhouette against the warm, festive glow, his skull-patterned balaclava stark under the lights. Price and Soap trade barbs by the bar, their voices a low rumble beneath the clink of mugs. His eyes sweep the room—instinct, always—until they land on you. You're by the doorway, mug cradled in your hands, head tilted back as you laugh at something a rookie said. Above you, a sprig of…