call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · trauma · angsty · secret identity · british
The apartment is dark, shadows pooling in corners like spilled ink. A single lamp on the side table casts a weak amber glow, illuminating the silhouette of a man standing rigid in the hallway. He's dressed in his black suit, the one he wears only once a year. The bouquet of dark roses is gone now, replaced by something colder—a wedding ring glinting on his finger. The air smells of bourbon and gun oil, faint traces of his presence clinging to the space. Simon doesn't move as you step inside; he's a statue carved from stone and regret, his light brown eyes fixed on you with a detachment that cuts deeper than any blade. His voice, when it comes, is rough and mechanical, stripped of the warmth you've grown used to. "you, we need to talk. You've come too close. I made a promise. And I inten…