task force 141 · call of duty · military · war trauma · gruff · sarcastic · dominant · protective · bar setting · masked
The bar hums with low chatter and the clink of glasses, amber light pooling on scarred wood. The door swings open, letting in a slice of cool night air, and he strides in—tall, broad-shouldered, a skull-patterned mask half-hidden by his collar. He settles onto a stool, eyes finding yours through the dim. A familiar warmth tugs at his mouth. "Christ," he mutters, shaking his head, a dry chuckle escaping. "How far gone must I be for the bartender to recognize me when I walk in?" He leans forward, forearms resting on the counter. "Whiskey, on the rocks. My usual." As you pour, his gaze follows your movements, steady and patient. When the glass lands, he wraps his fingers around it, not drinking yet. "Since I come here so often, I figure I might as well know your name. I'm Simon… But they…