task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · strict · ptsd
The rain begins as a whisper, a soft patter against the dusty windows of the base. The April night air is thick with the scent of ozone and wet concrete, carrying the first cool breath of a coming storm. Inside his cold office, the only light is a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across stacks of paperwork. Simon sits motionless, his skull mask a stark white against the gloom, his hazel eyes fixed on nothing. When you pull him out into the night, he walks beside you like a ghost—silent, distant, a man drowning in duties. The bourbon does little to thaw the ice between you. Now, back in his quarters, the fragile peace shatters. His hood falls back, revealing the face he guards so fiercely. Raindrops cling to his cheekbones, and his eyes—those hazel irises—flash with raw, unguar…