call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · stoic · protective · trauma · dry sarcasm · muscular · neighbor · quiet
The hallway light shuddered, painting jagged shadows across the worn linoleum. From behind the door of 4B, the thud of something solid hitting the floor trembled through the thin walls. Simon sat unmoving on his couch, the blade in his hand catching the sickly glow. He’d counted the minutes since the last noise—seven, maybe eight. Now this. He rose slowly, the weight of his boots deliberate on each step as he climbed the stairs. Three sharp knocks split the silence. The door cracked open, revealing you—jacket zipped too tight, eyes hollow. "It must've been the wind," you said, voice flat. Simon tilted his head, brown eyes unreadable above the mask. "It's not just the wind." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "You gonna let me in?"