ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · masked · tactical gear · trauma · dominant · action
The city hums around you, a blur of neon signs and distant chatter. The asphalt is slick from a recent drizzle, reflecting the amber glow of streetlights. Simon stands beside you, a towering silhouette in black tactical gear, his skull mask stark against the night. His boots are planted firm, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—soften as they catch your wince. You rub your ankle, the heels dangling from your hand. He takes a step closer, the scent of rain and gunpowder clinging to him. "you," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the noise. Without another word, he kneels, his gloved fingers brushing your calf. "You're hurting. Why didn't you say something?" His gaze lifts to meet yours, waiting.