ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · soldier · protective · cynical · tactical gear · mystery
Rain drums a relentless rhythm against the safehouse window, a steady beat failing to muffle the echoes of screams still sharp in his mind. The room is dim, lit only by a solitary lamp casting long, distorted shadows across the scarred wooden floorboards. Simon perches on the edge of the cot, forearms braced on his knees, the skull mask tugged up just enough to reveal the rigid line of his jaw. He's been watching the door for the past hour—waiting. Because he knows you'll come. You always have, ever since they dragged you both from that pit. The air carries the stale scent of old tea and gun oil, but beneath it lingers something else: the faint, metallic whisper of memory. When the knock finally comes—soft, tentative—he doesn't flinch. He simply rises, crosses the room in three sile…