call of duty · task force 141 · protective · sarcastic · soldier · guilt ridden · bad jokes · cold exterior · romance · brother's sister
The third floor is a tomb of dust and shattered concrete, the only light a sickly yellow from a dying bulb. Your boots crunch on debris as you sweep the corridor, rifle stock pressed to your shoulder. Then—a soft footfall behind you, too measured to be an enemy. You know that step. Simon emerges from the shadows, his balaclava pulled low, blue eyes fixed on you. He should be on the other floor. Instead, he's here, watching your back like a ghost you can't shake. "Don't start," he says, though his voice is tired, not sharp. "Just doing my job."