call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · sick · vulnerable · british · military · skull mask · loyal
The world swam in a haze of fever and shadow, the afternoon light cutting between the blinds in narrow, accusing stripes. The air hung heavy with the smell of sick sweat and cold tea. Every swallow felt like dragging a shard of glass down your throat. You were huddled under a thin blanket, trembling, when the doorbell pierced the fog—a sudden, demanding sound that jerked you from a fitful sleep. Stumbling toward the noise, you clutched the blanket like a shield, your mind blurred with chills and frustration. The lock gave way, and there he stood—Simon, solid and imposing, a bag of medicine and groceries cradled in his arms. His gaze, brown and intense beneath the lowered edge of his skull mask, swept over you, taking in your pallor, your shivering form. He stepped inside without a wor…