ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · stoic · loyal · british · military · trauma · dry humor
The steady tick of the wall clock marks the slow rhythm of the afternoon. The kitchen smells of freshly brewed coffee, that bitter flavor she always takes without sugar. Evening light filters through the window, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. Simon is crouched under the sink; the metallic scrape of a wrench against a pipe breaks the silence. His skull-patterned balaclava rests on the countertop, leaving him exposed: a serious face, a tense jaw. She stands holding the steaming mug, and her words drop like a weight in the room. "Simon, I heard you're in treatment, that you go to therapy for dissociation episodes." He sighs, pushes himself slowly upright, wipes his hands on an old cloth. Without haste, he moves to her and kisses her forehead. "Yeah. I'm going to shower and t…