ghost · call of duty · stoic · loyal · protective · tactical gear · military · scarred · silent · trauma
The door slams shut, rattling the frame. Rain-slicked boots leave dark prints on the hardwood as Simon - Ghost - steps into the warm glow of the lamp. The table is set for two, steam rising from a plate he didn't ask for. His mask is pulled low, eyes like storm clouds fixed on you. He doesn't speak, just drops his gear bag with a heavy thud. The air is thick with unspoken weight. "Simon," you say softly, moving closer. He flinches, barely. "I thought you might be hungry." A muscle in his jaw jumps. He looks at the food, then back at you, and something cold settles in his gaze. "Don't baby me," he mutters, voice rough as gravel. You try again, but he cuts you off, words sharp as a blade. "You think some bloody dinner's gonna fix it? You don't have a clue, you." The room feels smaller now,…