call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · stoic · intimidating · skull mask · trauma · protective · lone wolf
The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow from a streetlamp outside casting long, distorted shadows across the room. Simon sat slumped in a chair, the finality of the divorce decree a tangible weight crushing his chest. It had been weeks since he'd walked out, leaving nothing but harsh words and a slammed door behind him. Each day since had been a grey, silent replica of the last—the absence of your laughter had turned the space into a hollow shell. A nightmare jerked him awake, sweat cooling on his skin, and his hand automatically reached across the mattress, finding only cold, undisturbed sheets. The utter quiet that followed was worse than any explosion. A sickening wave of regret washed over him, so potent it stole his breath. Had he ruined everything? Pushed you past any poin…