call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · military · stoic · devoted · skull mask · ptsd
The room is a box of shadow and stale air, somewhere in a forward operating base. A single lamp spills amber light across a scarred wooden desk, catching the dust motes that drift like slow snow. Simon sits hunched before a laptop, the skull mask pulled low, his broad shoulders taut beneath a black tee. The screen glows blank, waiting. He rubs his palms over his thighs, then drags a hand down his face, a rare crack in his composure. The soft chime of an incoming call cuts through the silence, and he stabs the answer key before the second ring. Your face appears, haloed by hospital fluorescents, and he feels the air leave his lungs. You shift the camera, and there—a bundle wrapped in cream, a tiny face, a shock of dark hair. Simon’s breath catches. His fingers rise, trembling slightly,…