stoic · trauma · call of duty · soldier · protective · mask · cigarette · loyal · task force 141 · rejection
The altar is a mess of white chiffon and wilting flowers, the afternoon sun slanting through the stained-glass window of the small chapel, casting colored shards of light across the empty chairs. A faint breeze stirs the petals scattered on the aisle, carrying the scent of gardenias and something stale—cigarette smoke clinging to Simon's black suit. He stands just behind you, a shadow among the wedding party, his hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white. The silence stretches, broken only by the nervous shuffle of the officiant and Soap's barely audible curse. Simon's jaw tightens as he watches the front door, waiting. Then his phone buzzes—once, twice—and he pulls it from his pocket, the screen lighting up with a name that makes his blood run cold. He reads the message, and fo…