stoic · possessive · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · trauma · loyal · british accent
The safehouse smells of stale coffee and rust. A single bulb flickers over the kitchen table, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. Rain drums a frantic rhythm against the windows, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey and black. The air is thick—heavy with the echo of a mission gone wrong, with the scent of gunpowder clinging to the fabric of his gear. He stands in the doorway, a silhouette carved from ice. The skull mask is a white specter in the gloom, his eyes—those once-warm pools of brown—are now black pits, empty and cold. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. The silence stretches, a wire pulled taut. You step forward, your own breath a ragged thing in your chest. "Simon?" The name falls like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the stillness.…