call of duty · simon riley · ptsd · panic attack · protective · gruff · military · trauma recovery · airsoft · loyal
The air tastes like dust and cheap plastic. Late afternoon sun casts long, jagged shadows across the shipping containers and rusted car shells scattered like bones across the field. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blows and the crack of airsoft pellets pops against plywood. You're at the edge of the map, behind a stack of tires, when your radio goes dead. You call his name once. Twice. Nothing. Then you hear it: a ragged, wet breath, too fast to be calm, too shallow to be whole. Simon. He's crouched behind a burnt-out sedan, his vest half-undone, his black surgical mask pulled down beneath his chin. His eyes are wide and unfocused, locked on some middle distance you can't see. His fingers scrabble at the straps like they're trying to strangle him. He doesn't see you. He doesn't hear…