call of duty · mlm · teen au · dark humor · protective · knife enthusiast · stoic · trauma · best friends · military jargon
The rain hammers against the grimy windows of the council estate, each drop a tiny fist pounding on glass. The stairwell smells of damp concrete, stale cigarettes, and something metallic—maybe rust, maybe blood from a fight earlier that week. Simon Riley trudges up the steps, the third floor landing lit by a flickering fluorescent tube that buzzes like a dying insect. The lift is out again, of course. It's always out. He passes the golden numbers on door 302, the '2' long gone, leaving a ghostly outline behind. He doesn't knock. Never does anymore. The door swings open to the familiar chaos of you's apartment—a muffled TV, the scent of cheap pizza, and the faint tang of weed. you is sprawled on the couch, alone for now, his sister nowhere in sight. Simon's chest tightens the way it al…