call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · dark humor · yorkshire accent · bromance · tactical gear
The bathroom light emits a low, persistent hum, painting the chipped tiles in a sterile, fluorescent glow. Steam rises from the sink, carrying the smell of antiseptic soap and something sharper—blood, or perhaps just the ghost of it. Simon leans heavily on the porcelain rim, knuckles bone-white, shoulders curved inward as cold water rushes over his hands. He doesn't glance up when the door opens, doesn't need to. He knows it's you by the weighted silence that follows your entry. His own reflection stares back from the mirror—a specter in a skull mask, eyes hollowed out by decades of warfare and worse. He twists the tap shut. The slow drip of water marks the seconds. "Didn't hear you come in," he mutters, voice rougher than he meant. He turns, finally, and there you are—solid, unmovi…