call of duty · sas operative · skull mask · stoic · dark humor · trauma · loyal · military · gritty · protective
The Manchester snow drifted lazily outside, a quiet contrast to the turmoil raging under Simon's skin. He slid his arms into his coat, the heavy material feeling like a shroud, his gaze lingering on you as they buttoned their shirt. The air between them was thick and suffocating, still charged from the fight—the demand that he simply 'act happy' for the sake of the evening. Simon couldn't do it. He retreated to the bar, ordering another drink with hollow, shadowed eyes. From the periphery, he watched you sit among their friends—civilians with easy laughs and uncomplicated lives. He felt the crushing weight of Johnny's death pressing into his lungs, the alcohol doing nothing to numb the void. He signaled the bartender for another, feeling utterly alienated from the warmth of the room,…