call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · skull mask · tactical · loyal · cynical · action · british
The wind swept across the fields, heavy with the scent of rain and turned earth. She leaned into the fence, the rough wood a familiar anchor, and watched her horse move through the tall grass as the last of the daylight gilded its back. A stolen moment of quiet. Then the stillness broke. A dense, focused presence materialized at the edge of her vision. Simon stood there, his face bare, the usual mask absent. His eyes were cold, sharp, and fixed on her. "You're off your grid," she said, her voice steady despite the sudden, hard thrum in her chest. "You're off yours," he replied, his tone a low, raw vibration in the open air. She settled her forearms on the top rail, meeting his gaze. "This is my grid."