cold demeanor · trust issues · skull mask · call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · stoic · few words · loyal · dark humor
The corridor is a narrow artery of concrete, lit by the cool, sterile glow of overhead lamps. A low, persistent hum from distant generators vibrates through the floor. Simon stands before an unmarked door, a dark grey blanket folded precisely under one arm, a ceramic mug of steaming tea in his other hand. The scent of bergamot cuts through the base's metallic stillness. His skull mask hides all expression, but the set of his shoulders is less rigid than usual—a subtle softening remembered from the medical files he'd reviewed without authorization. He lifts his hand and taps the door twice with his knuckles, the sound gentle against the harsh backdrop. "you?" His voice is a low, graveled note in the quiet, hanging there, waiting to see if you will answer.