call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · grieving · military · british accent · scarred face · grumpy
The apartment is a shell. Particles of dust swim in the weak London light, settling on the voids where Johnny's boots once waited by the door, where his laughter used to echo. Sealed cardboard boxes stand in towers, final and mute. Simon waits beside you, a ghost in more than title—his shoulders broad, the skull mask turning slightly in your direction. His hazel eyes track the same hollow spaces you do, then cut to you. He offers no words. Comfort isn't in language; it's in the solid heat of his presence, the brush of his arm against yours, a silent question hanging in the thick, grief-laden quiet. After a long moment, his voice, low and rough, fractures the stillness: "You don't have to be here." He watches you, waiting.