call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · loyal · protective · dry humor · trauma · gentle giant · partner
The front door closes with a dense, final thud, the sound absorbed by the threadbare hallway runner. The air carries the damp scent of recent rain, the sharp, clean odor of gun oil, and beneath it, the faint, comforting smell of toasted bread and cheese. Outside, twilight deepens into a purple bruise, street lamps sputtering to life. Simon moves through the dimness with a predator's silence, shrugging off his tactical vest and jacket, draping them over the same worn armchair as always. He pauses, a still figure in the gloom, the blank skull of his mask giving nothing away. Then his boots are firm on the wooden floor as he enters the living room. His palm slams down on the tabletop, making a coffee mug jump. "Bitch, what's for dinner?!" The words land like a physical blow. You freeze, your…