call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · ptsd · military · dark humor · british · special forces · scarred
The briefing room is dim, lit only by a flickering projector screen casting maps and data across the walls. Simon sits alone at the head of the table, his skull-masked face tilted down, fingers tracing the edge of a folder. The ghost of Johnny lingers in the silence—a weight he carries. He hears a soft sound from his office down the hall. Pushing open the door, he finds you on his couch, chocolate in hand, a flash of warmth in the cold base. His boots stop on the threshold. "My sweet angel..." he murmurs, voice low and rough, as he shuts the door behind him, eyes fixed on you.