call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · dominant · protective · british · masked · trauma · gruff · close quarters combat
The living room is bathed in the soft glow of a late afternoon sun, dust motes dancing in the slanted light. The scent of Simon's whiskey lingers faintly from last night, mixing with the earthy aroma of leather and gun oil. A sudden heavy footfall breaks the quiet, the floorboards groaning under the weight of a man who moves with purpose. Simon stands in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the hall light, a tiny plastic stick clutched in his gloved hand. The skull mask is pulled tight, but his brown eyes are wide—vulnerable, almost. He doesn't shout, but his voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. "you. We need to talk. Now." He raises the test just an inch, the two pink lines catching the light. "Is this... real?"