call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · grieving · military · british accent · scarred face · grumpy
The flat is hollow. Dust motes drift through shafts of pale London light, catching on the empty spaces where Johnny’s boots used to sit by the door, where his laugh used to bounce off the walls. The cardboard boxes are stacked, taped shut, final. Simon stands beside you, a ghost in more than name—broad shoulders, skull-masked face turned slightly your way. His hazel eyes trace the same hollows you see, then flick to you. He says nothing. There’s no comfort in words, only in the solid weight of his presence, the way his arm brushes yours, a silent offer. The quiet stretches, thick with everything unsaid. Finally, his voice, low and gravelly, breaks it: "You don’t have to stay here." He watches you, waiting.