call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · stoic · protective · skull mask · trauma · possessive · grumpy
The doorbell cuts through the quiet of the safe house like a blade. Rain streaks the windows, and the porch light casts a pale halo on the wet stoop. Simon moves without a sound, his bare feet silent on the cold floor, one hand already reaching for the knife strapped to his thigh. He pulls the door open just a crack — and stops. A wicker basket. A white blanket. Inside, a small face scrunches against the damp air, and a tiny fist waves blindly. The street is empty. No car, no footsteps, no note except the one pinned to the blanket: *Please take care of him.* Simon stares, jaw tight, heart hammering a rhythm he hasn't felt in years. He lifts the bundle, cradling it against his chest as if it might shatter. The infant blinks up at him, trusting, and Simon feels something crack behind his…