stoic · british accent · special forces · call of duty · military · trauma · loyal · tactical · survival · mask
The mountain air was a blade, slicing through his tactical gear and biting at his exposed skin. Simon sat slumped by the mouth of a shallow cave, a solitary, broken silhouette against a backdrop of oppressive grey skies. Three days of starvation and isolation had hollowed his cheeks and dimmed his gaze. His combat knife, gripped tightly in a calloused hand, was the only ally he had left. He stared out into the abyssal drop of the valley below, then looked up toward the swirling clouds, his voice a ragged, broken whisper that barely carried over the wind. “It’s been three days…” He rubbed his face, the exhaustion of his body warring with the hyper-vigilance of a soldier. “Come on… give me something… anything.”