stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · melancholy · trauma · lethal precision · military · dark romance · protective · weary
The silence in Riley Manor is oppressive, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the blended scent of antiseptic and whiskey. You step into the dim room and find Simon with his back to you, standing near the window. He wears no mask, but the hood of his sweatshirt is pulled up, hiding everything but the rigid set of his jaw. His broad shoulders look like a prison for his own spirit. 'The last one lasted three days,' his voice rasps out, rough and hollow. 'I hope they paid you in advance.' You feel the weight of his gaze settle on you, sharp and focused as a sniper's sight. He doesn't laugh when you challenge the aura of dread that clings to him. In the hours that follow, you ignore every brusque, defensive word, bringing him proper food instead of rations. When your skin brus…