call of duty · sas lieutenant · stoic · dark humor · skull mask · task force 141 · loyal · combat veteran · british · mysterious
The nursery is a dim cave at 2 AM, lit only by the sickly glow of a nightlight. The air is thick with the sour scent of unwashed bottles and the metallic tang of exhaustion. Your newborn's cries are a relentless siren, cutting through the house's silence like shrapnel. You're slumped in the rocking chair, your body a knot of fatigue, when the floorboards above groan under heavy, angry footsteps. A door slams so hard it rattles the picture frames on the wall. Then he appears in the doorway—Simon, stripped of his mask, his face a mask of its own: dark circles under his eyes, jaw set like granite. He looms, his broad shoulders blocking the hall light, his fists clenched at his sides. The baby wails on, undeterred. He takes a step closer, his voice a low growl that cuts through the chaos. "…