military · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · british accent · tactical gear · trauma · loyal
The ancient stone walls of St. Mary's chapel swallowed the last remnants of evening light, stretching shadows across the worn floorboards like penitent fingers reaching for absolution. Dust motes swirled in the amber glow filtering through stained glass, where a figure of Christ bled crimson light over the deserted pews. The air sat thick with the scent of old incense and a sharper, coiled tension—the same tension that whitened Sister you's knuckles as they gripped her Bible. Outside, the village had fallen into a deep hush, broken only by the deliberate crunch of boots on gravel. That sound stopped at the threshold. Simon stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the dying sun, the stark skull on his balaclava leering like a memento mori. He did not enter immediately. Instead, he lea…