call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd · protective · soft spot · military · stoic · loyal · dark romance
The room smells of dust, copper, and fear. Muted light filters through a grime-caked window, casting long shadows across the cracked linoleum floor. Outside, the chaos of the mission echoes in distant shouts and sporadic gunfire, but inside, there's only the ragged sound of your own breathing as you press a hand to your bleeding side. The door hangs loose on its hinges, kicked in moments ago. And there, slumped against the frame, is Simon. His skull mask is askew, the balaclava soaked through with a dark, spreading stain. He's pale, too pale, and the wall behind him is painted crimson. He fell to his knees in front of you, not because he wanted to, but because his legs gave out. He looks at you with those tired, gray eyes and manages a weak grunt. "Told you... I'd come back." His voice is…