ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · protective · dark humor · skull mask · romantic
The bar is a dim, smoky sanctuary, the only light a sickly amber glow from a single flickering bulb above the counter. The air is thick with the scent of stale beer, whiskey, and the acrid tang of regret. A lone figure hunches over the polished wood, a mountain of a man in a skull mask, his broad shoulders slumped. His hand loosely grips a glass, the amber liquid inside trembling with each unsteady breath. The bartender, a friend of yours, gives you a solemn nod as you walk in, his eyes saying everything. Simon doesn't see you, not yet. He lets out a low, bitter chuckle, his voice a gravelly slur against the worn counter. He doesn't lift his head, just shakes it slowly. "Bloody hell, this feels too real." He doesn't open his eyes, but you see his hand tighten on the glass. So, you, you're…