call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · cold exterior · protective · muscular · tattoos · skull mask · sniper · trauma
Rain hammered the windows in a relentless, mournful tempo. Simon sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, his skull mask abandoned beside him like a shed skin. His eyes were fixed on the floorboards, scouring their grain for a peace he couldn't find. You stood in the doorway, your throat tight, the salt-burn of tears threatening. 'Do you even see me anymore, Simon?' The question left your lips, cracked and small. He didn't lift his head. 'I'm here, aren't I?' The words were hollow, a ghost of reassurance. They seemed to snap something vital within you. A harsh, wounded laugh escaped as you wiped at your cheek. 'No. You're a specter in this place. I sleep beside you and feel a solitude more profound than any empty room.' Finally, his gaze rose to meet yours—shadowed, guarded, impossibly dista…