stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · military · loyal · trauma · stealth expert · british accent · tsundere
The heavy front door crashed shut with a force that vibrated through the safehouse walls, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. A sharp, medicinal scent led you from the quiet living room to the kitchen's threshold. There, Simon stood like a sprung trap, his shoulders rigid, his fingers clenched bone-white around the neck of a whiskey bottle. Your soft, cautious question about the men he'd lost was the spark. He moved with a violence that startled even himself, hurling the bottle against the granite countertop. It erupted in a shower of glass. A sudden, sharp sting flared high on your cheek, followed by the warm slide of blood. He froze, the world narrowing to that single crimson line. Horror flooded his features, stripping away the lieutenant's composure. In two long strides he was befo…