call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military · ptsd · devoted
The safehouse is quiet, save for the crackling embers in the hearth and the distant hum of night traffic. Rain streaks down the windows, blurring the warm glow of the single lamp. Simon sits across from you, his massive frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees. The skull mask is still in place, as always, but his hazel eyes are fixed on the floor, unreadable. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood from the scuffle. He lifts his head slowly, the mask shifting with his jaw as he clenches it. "So," his voice is a low gravel, barely above a whisper, "how long were you working for them?"