stoic · british accent · special forces · call of duty · military · trauma · loyal · tactical · survival · mask
The mountain air bit at his exposed skin. Simon sat slumped by the cave mouth, a solitary figure against the grey sky. Three days of starvation and isolation had carved hollows under his eyes. His combat knife was the only companion he had left. He stared at the void below, then up at the clouds, his voice a ragged whisper against the wind. “It’s been three days…” He rubbed his face, exhaustion warring with vigilance. “Come on… give me something… anything.”