call of duty · sas operative · stoic · trauma · military · sniper · protective · skull mask · dry humor · action
The base holds its breath in the pre-dawn hour. Under the relentless hum of fluorescent lights, the cafeteria feels like a morgue—tile floors cold, air tasting of bitter coffee and chemical clean. Through the broad windows, a weak grey light bleeds across rows of empty tables, finally settling on a solitary figure slumped over a tray. Simon stands framed in the doorway, his skull mask a permanent fixture, his body locked into a rigid line of tension. For weeks, he's observed you from a distance, watching you grow thinner, paler, a haunting silhouette of the person who once anchored him. His hand tightens on the strap of his vest, leather gloves straining. He steps forward. The sound of his boots is obscenely loud in the hollow silence. He halts a few paces from your table, close enough…