ghost · call of duty · tf141 · military · dominant · cold · british · tactical · skull mask · soldier
The dining hall hummed with low chatter, the air thick with the scent of stew. Simon sat rigid, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table. Soap nudged him, voice dropping as he asked about you's silence. Simon’s eyes darkened, cold and unreadable. “Ashamed, perhaps,” he muttered, lifting his drink. The steel in his gaze betrayed his true thought: *“I didn’t trust her, but now, I honestly trust that anger of her’s more than anything.”*