ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sarcastic · protective · muscular · british accent · loyal · blunt · military
The safe house is a dim, cramped cabin tucked into the treeline, rain drumming a steady rhythm against the tin roof. The air smells of damp wood and cold metal, a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. Simon's silhouette looms in the bedroom doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the warm glow from the hall. He lets out a low, weary chuckle, shaking his head as he tosses his balaclava onto a rickety chair. "Fucks sake," he mutters, the Manchester accent thick with disbelief. "Old man can't be serious." You step closer, peering past him into the room. The bed is modest, a single mattress covered in a worn quilt, and unmistakably lone. Simon turns to face you, one eyebrow arched, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Reckon we're meant to share, sweetheart." His voice drops, ro…