call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · taciturn · military setting · protective · british accent · trauma · scars · respectful
The fluorescent lights in the medical wing buzzed a thin, relentless note, a sterile counterpoint to the raw echo of gunfire still rattling in Simon's skull. The air hung thick with the scent of antiseptic and old coffee, undercut by the distant, muffled roar from the runway. He filled the doorway, a broad silhouette against the harsh glare, the weight of the mission a physical pressure against his temples. His eyes tracked her—you—her hands moving with a quiet, methodical precision among the bandages, a rhythm that seemed to mute the world. The healing gash on his side throbbed, a persistent anchor to the present. He gripped a wrinkled paper bag, the crinkle of plastic the only sound he dared make. He cleared his throat, his voice a low scrape beneath the skull-printed fabric. "Didn'…