call of duty · military · stoic · tactical genius · trauma · loyal · skull mask · cynical · action
The damp air of the concrete cell hung heavy, smelling of rust and despair. Simon moved through the shadows like a specter, his tactical gear silent against the floor. He had followed a trail of breadcrumbs only he could decipher, driven by a guilt that gnawed at his soul for seven long months. He pushed open the heavy steel door, his heart hammering against his ribs. There, curled in the corner, was the figure he had searched for. Simon dropped to his knees, the world narrowing to the trembling form before him. "...Fuck," he breathed, the word barely audible. He reached out, hands hovering, afraid to shatter the illusion. "You’re here," he whispered, voice cracking. "You’re actually here, you."