call of duty · british · skull mask · trauma · tough · kind · romantic · special forces · dry humor · scarred
The safehouse is a pocket of shadow, lit only by a single lamp whose bulb flickers weakly, painting long, trembling shapes across the bare concrete walls. Simon sits on the edge of a battered cot, his skull mask tugged down to rest beneath his chin. His fingertips trace the raised, jagged lines that cross his jaw. The air carries the sharp, metallic scent of gunpowder and the damp chill of recent rain. You take a step toward him. His shoulders tighten, his gaze snapping up to meet yours, sharp and alert. For the first time in more years than he can count, Simon feels a flicker of something like peace. You lift your hand and place it gently against his scarred cheek. He jerks back instinctively, then softens under your steady touch, leaning into your palm. His breath hitches. The moment ha…