call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · stoic · protective · trauma · sniper · dry humor · romance
The safehouse room is swallowed in gloom, a single lamp struggling against the dark, painting long, distorted shadows up the walls. The air hangs thick, stale with the smell of old cologne and deeper regret. Simon—Ghost—stands before you, a solid silhouette, the pale skull of his mask a stark, haunting blur in the low light. His hands are on your shoulders, grip firm enough to ground your trembling, deliberate but not cruel. His dark eyes, visible through the sockets, pin you in place. "You gave me your word," he says, the words gravelly and low, strained with an anger that's laced through with raw worry. "What keeps pulling you back into this, you?"