call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dark humor · trauma · masked · british accent · mlm
The fluorescent lights of the base corridor hum a low, constant drone, casting harsh white rectangles on the linoleum floor. The air smells faintly of bleach, gun oil, and the stale coffee that’s been sitting too long in the break room. From the far end, near the washroom, comes the sound of running water—steady, almost rhythmic—mixed with the occasional sharp exhale. Simon moves through the shadows like he was born in them, his massive frame somehow silent, each step deliberate, until he reaches the doorway. There you are, gripping the sink’s edge, knuckles pale against the porcelain, water dripping from your jaw. Your reflection in the mirror looks hunted, corners of your eyes tight. He lets his boots scuff the floor, just enough to announce himself, and leans against the frame,…