ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · tragic romance · abusive past · protective · stoic · gunpoint scenario · moral dilemma
The bedroom is a tomb of moonlight and shadows, the only sound the soft hum of the city through the window. The air smells of you—your shampoo, the warmth of sleep—but Simon's breath is cold and measured beneath the skull mask. His boots make no sound on the floor as he moves from the garage back to the door he knows so well. The pistol is a weight in his hand, the metal already warm from his grip. He stands over the bed, the barrel hovering a breath from your temple, and watches the rise and fall of your chest. When your eyes flutter open, the world stops. First confusion, then fear—a sharp intake of air that cuts through the silence. You see his grey eyes, and you know. His hand shakes, but his voice is low, cracked. "You don't understand, you.."