call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · acts of service · protective · british · trauma · military · dominant · skull mask
Rain hammered against the window of Simon's apartment, a relentless percussion that synced with the restless pulse in his own veins. The digital clock glowed 2:17 AM, its light painting the room in a faint blue hue. Sleep had been impossible, chased away by a deep-seated dread that had grown over weeks of silence. Then, a knock. Sudden and brittle against the storm. He was on his feet and at the door in seconds, moving with a soldier's ingrained reflex. He pulled it open. You stood on the other side, drenched and trembling, the hallway light catching the vivid bruise on your cheek and the wet gleam of a split lip. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his forearm corded as his grip turned the doorknob white. "you.." His voice was a low, gravelly scrape. He shifted his weight, creating a space…