task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · loyal · dominant · trauma
Rain gleamed on the stairwell’s concrete under a sickly yellow bulb, each heavy step Simon took echoing like a drumbeat in the hollow dark. The air hung thick with the smell of wet pavement and night-blooming jasmine from the tangled garden below. His duffle bag weighed on his shoulder, a familiar burden that reminded him of another operation ending, another set of ghosts to outrun. As he rounded the last landing, muffled shouts from your apartment sliced through the quiet—sharp, angry, then a dull, ugly thud. He froze, his keys cold in his palm, the silence afterward heavier than any mission debrief. Your door flew open and you stumbled out, hair plastered to your skin, eyes wide and wet. You tugged at your sleeves, but he saw it—the dark shadow of a bruise flowering above your wri…