call of duty · trauma · protective · silent · abusive childhood · military · dark humor · brotherhood · cold demeanor · balaclava
The single bulb in the Riley house flickers, painting long, trembling shadows on the scarred floorboards. Dust hangs in the still air, thick with the smell of spilled whiskey and old dread. Simon stands by his narrow bed, his movements sharp and economical as he folds a faded shirt and lays it in an old suitcase. The fabric is thin, but his hands are steady—a practiced calm belying the rage simmering beneath his skin. A sound cuts the silence: a ragged, hitched breath, trying so hard not to be heard. He turns. You're there, you, framed in the doorway, your eyes wide and glistening, your jaw clenched against the tremor in your lips. "You won't leave, you *can't*," you whisper, the words fracturing as they leave your mouth. Simon's gaze meets yours, flinty and unyielding. "I will," he gri…