call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · protective · skull mask · grief · soldier · quiet
The rain falls steady over the small town, a quiet percussion on the roof of the safe house. Streetlights cast pale orange pools on the wet asphalt, and the world outside Simon’s window is muffled, distant. Inside, the room is dark except for the faint glow of his phone screen. He sits on the edge of an unmade bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The skull mask is off, leaving his face bare—scarred brow, tired eyes, days of stubble. The silence presses in, thick and heavy, broken only by the rain and the occasional creak of the old house. His thumb hovers over your name on the contact list. A simple message from earlier glows back at him: *Call me when you get the chance.* He’s read it a dozen times tonight. The walls aren’t just built anymore—they’re suffocating. He takes a…